Q  : 

YELLOW 
TYPHOON 


HAROLD  MAC  GRAFH 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 


.  OF  CALIF.  UBRARTf,  W»S 


BOOKS  BY 
HAROLD  MAcGRATH 

THE  YELLOW  TYPHOON 

THE   PRIVATE  WIRE   TO  WASHINGTON 

THE   LUCK   OF  THE    IRISH 

THE  GIRL  IN  HIS  HOUSE 


HARPER  &   BROTHERS,   NEW  YORK 

[ESTABLISHED    1817] 


"  V[o.     Tin-  same  irirl  in  every  port,  in  the  fire,  in 

•i-    '       *l»r»    IMI  ii  in    1111  vt 


tlic  moon  mist. 


The 

Yellow  Typhoon 

BY 

HAROLD  MAcGRATH 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  GIRL  IN  HIS  HOUSE"  "THE  PRIVATE 
WIRK  TO  WASHINGTON"  ETC. 


Illustrated  by 
WILL  GREFE 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


THE  YELLOW  TYPHOON 


Copyright,  1919,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  01  America 

Published  October.  1919 

I-T 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  No.    THE  SAME  GIRL  IN  EVERT  PORT,  IN  THE 

FlRE,    IN   THE  MoON-MlSTs" Frontispiece 

HILDA  WAS  STANDING  IN  THE  DOORWAY,  STRUCK 
BY  THAT  HYPNOSIS  WITH  WHICH  SUDDEN  TRAGEDY 
ALWAYS  BENUMBS  Us Facing  p.  292 


2131520 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 


THE   YELLOW  TYPHOON 


CHAPTER  I 

A  NAVAL  officer,  trig  in  his  white  twill, 
strode  along  the  Escolta,  Manila's 
leading  thoroughfare.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  stride  that  suggested  anger; 
and  the  settled  grimness  of  his  lips,  visible 
between  his  mustache  and  short  beard,  and 
the  hard  brightness  of  his  blue  eyes  em- 
phasized this  suggestion.  He  was  angry, 
but  it  was  a  cold  anger,  a  kind  of  clear- 
minded  fury  which  often  makes  calculation 
terrible.  He  had  been  carrying  this  anger 
in  his  heart  for  six  bitter  years.  It  was 
something  like  glacial  ice;  it  moved  always, 
but  never  seemed  to  lose  either  hardness  or 
configuration.  To-day  it  had  the  effect  of 
the  north  wind  —  that  almost  forgotten 
north  wind  of  his  native  land — in  that  it 
winnowed  all  the  chaff  from  his  mind  and 

left  one  clear  thought.    He  would  settle  the 

i 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

matter  once  and  for  all  time.  The  face 
and  form  of  an  angel,  and  the  heart  of  a 
Messalina! 

He  had  known  all  along  that  some  day 
she  would  turn  up  in  Manila.  It  was  im- 
possible for  them  to  resist  the  temptation 
to  view  their  handiwork.  Tigers,  they  al- 
ways return  to  the  kill.  But  he  had  her 
now,  had  her  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 
All  the  fear  of  her  was  gone.  This  after- 
noon he  would  teach  her  what  the  word 
meant.  Civilians  were  lucky.  These  sor- 
did things  could  pop  up  into  their  lives, 
even  get  into  the  papers,  and  shortly  be 
forgotten.  But  in  the  navy  it  was  the 
knell  of  advancement.  It  never  mattered 
if  the  wrong  was  wholly  on  the  other  side; 
the  result  was  the  same.  But  he  had  her, 
thank  God!  The  world  would  never  know 
what  had  turned  Bob  Hallowell  into  a 
misanthrope.  The  tentacles  of  the  octopus 
had  been  lopped  off,  as  by  a  miracle.  He 
was  a  free  man. 

Never  would  he  forget  the  shame  and 
misery,  the  horror  of  that  night  in  the 
Grand  Hotel  in  Yokohama.  The  brazen- 
ness  of  that  confession — on  the  first  night 
of  his  honeymoon!  He  was  free,  yes,  but 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

he  would  never  be  able  to  blot  out  that 
infernal  night.  Well,  he  had  her.  She 
should  leave  Manila  on  the  first  ship  that 
left  port;  it  did  not  matter  whether  it  went 
north  or  east.  If  she  proved  obdurate,  he 
would  have  her  arrested.  He  would  fight 
her  tooth  and  nail.  The  world  had  changed 
since  that  night.  The  old  order  had  gone 
to  smash  since  August,  1914.  Traditions 
had  been  badly  mauled  by  necessities.  Such 
a  scandal,  in  which  he  had  been  merely  the 
dupe,  would  scarcely  leave  a  ripple  in  pass- 
ing. Who  would  care,  these  tremendous 
times? 

He  stopped  abruptly.  His  thoughts  had 
almost  carried  him  past  the  hotel,  one  of 
those  second-rate  establishments  which  you 
find  in  all  Oriental  cities  that  are  sea- 
ports, hotels  full  of  tragic  and  sordid  his- 
tories. He  entered,  ran  up  the  first  flight  of 
stairs,  scrutinized  the  numbers  on  two  doors, 
and  paused  before  the  third.  He  raised  his 
hand  and  struck  the  panel.  A  touch  of 
vertigo  seized  him.  Supposing  his  love  for 
the  Jezebel  was  still  a  living  thing  and 
needed  only  the  sight  of  the  woman  to 
revive  it? 

"Come  in!" 

3 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

He  opened  the  door  and  closed  it  behind 
him,  standing  with  his  back  to  it.  He  did 
not  take  off  his  hat.  A  cold  little  shudder 
ran  over  him.  She  was  more  beautiful  than 
ever. 

She  rose  from  a  dilapidated  corduroy 
divan,  pressed  the  coal  of  a  cigarette  into 
the  ash-tray,  and  faced  him,  her  air  one  of 
hesitance  and  timidity.  What  she  saw  was 
a  squat  muscular  body,  a  beautiful  head 
with  a  rugged,  kindly  face.  She  noted  the 
hair,  shot  with  silver.  That  was  always 
a  good  sign.  Still,  there  was  something  in 
the  elevation  of  his  jaw  and  the  set  of  his 
powerful  shoulders  she  did  not  like. 

What  he  saw  was  a  woman  of  medium 
height,  slender  but  perfectly  molded,  young, 
beautiful,  exquisite.  Her  hair  was  the 
color  of  spun  molasses,  lustrous  because  the 
color  was  genuine.  Her  eyes  were  velvety 
purple.  The  skin  was  milk-white,  with  a 
hint  of  peachblow  under  the  eyes  and 
temples.  The  marvel  of  her  lay  in  the 
fact  that  she  never  had  to  make  up.  The 
devil  had  given  her  all  those  effectives  for 
which  most  women  strive  in  vain.  Inno- 
cence! She  might  have  stepped  out  of  one 
of  Bouguereau's  masterpieces.  At  one  cor- 

4 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

ner  of  her  mouth  was  the  most  charming 
mole  imaginable.  You  might  look  at  her 
nose,  her  eyes,  the  curve  of  her  chin,  but 
invariably  your  glance  returned  to  the  mole. 
The  devil's  finishing-touch;  it  permitted 
you  to  see  the  mouth  indirectly,  and  you 
lost  the  salient — a  certain  grim,  cruel 
hardness. 

He  waited  with  an  ironical  twist  to  one 
corner  of  his  mouth.  But  in  his  heart  there 
was  great  rejoicing.  Aside  from  the  initial 
chill — nothing,  not  a  thrill,  not  a  tingle  at 
the  roots  of  his  hair.  He  could  look  upon 
her  beauty  without  a  single  extra  heart- 
beat. He  was  free,  spiritually  as  well  as 
legally. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"I  came  to  Manila,  to  you,  because  I  am 
tired  and  repentant  and  want  a  home.  I 
am  growing  old." 

He  laughed  and  rested  his  shoulders 
against  the  door.  There  was  a  repressed 
volcanic  flash  in  her  eyes.  That  laugh  did 
not  presage  well. 

"  Is  it  so  hard  to  forgive?"    Vocal  honey. 

"What  is  it  you  really  want?"  he  asked, 
perfectly  willing  to  see  the  comedy  to  its 
end. 

5 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"A  home  .  .  .  with  you.  I  know,  Rob- 
ert, that  I  was  a  wretch  in  those  days.  But 
the  world  over  here  .  .  .  men  .  .  .  the 
temptation  .  .  .  the  primordial  instinct  of 
woman  to  fight  man  with  any  weapon  she 
can  lay  a  hand  to!  ...  Won't  you  take 
me  back  and  forgive?" 

"Take  care,  Berta!  Don't  waste  those 
tears!  In  your  eyes  they  are  pearls  with- 
out price.  Don't  waste  them  on  me." 

"Then  you  won't  forgive?" 

"Forgive?  What  manner  of  fool  have 
you  written  me  down?  Forgive!  I  gave 
you  an  honest  man's  love  .  .  .  and  you 
picked  my  pockets!  I  would  not  give  two 
coppers  to  place  on  your  dead  eyes.  Take 
you  home?  Innocent  child!" 

"Ah!    Then  it  is  war?" 

"  War  to  the  end,  pretty  cobra !  You  don't 
suppose  I  came  here  with  any  other  idea?" 

How  she  hated  this  man!  Hated  him 
because  she  had  never  beaten  him,  never 
seen  him  cringe  nor  heard  him  plead.  She, 
too,  would  remember  that  night  in  Yoko- 
hama, six  years  gone.  After  the  blow,  si- 
lence, not  a  word  or  a  look.  Stonily  he  had 
packed  up  his  belongings  and  gone  to 
the  Yokohama  Club,  whence  he  had  gone 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

aboard  a  cruiser  in  the  morning.  Since 
that  moment  until  this  she  had  never  laid 
eyes  on  him.  Every  six  months  a  check 
came;  but  even  that  lacked  his  signature— 
a  draft  from  Cook's.  War!  So  be  it.  He 
would  learn  when  she  began  to  turn  the 
screws. 

"You  will  take  me  home  and  acknowledge 
me,"  she  whipped  back  at  him. 

"Acknowledge  you  .  .  .  what?" 

"As  your  wife!"  stormily. 

Again  he  laughed.  "You  are  not  my 
wife,  and  never  have  been." 

"And  how  will  you  prove  it?" 

"That  will  be  easy.  Curious  old  world, 
isn't  it?  I  thought,  when  I  received  your 
note,  that  nothing  would  satisfy  me  but  to 
wring  your  neck.  And  all  I  want  is  a  kiss 
.  .  .  because  I'm  sure  it  would  poison  you! 
I  know.  You  have  in  that  head  of  jours 
schemes  for  my  humiliation,  scandal,  and 
all  that.  A  woman,  known  as  The  Yellow 
Typhoon,  claiming  to  be  the  wife  of  one 
Robert  Hallowell,  rampaging  the  office, 
storming  the  villa  gate,  getting  interviewed. 
No,  Berta,  it  isn't  going  to  happen  at  all. 
On  the  contrary,  you  will  leave  Manila  on 
the  first  ship  out  " 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"And  if  I  refuse?" 

"  Bilibid  prison.  While  we  are  very  busy 
militarily,  our  civil  courts  have  plenty  of 
time  to  try  a  prime  case  of  bigamy.  War? 
You  will  jolly  well  find  out!" 

"Bigamy!" 

"Sure.  Lieutenant  Graham  is  dead,  and 
I  had  charge  of  his  effects.  I  found  some 
interesting  letters.  These  led  me  to  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  cathedral,  where  your 
name  and  his  were  neatly  inscribed  on  the 
register  ...  six  months  before  you  laid  your 
trap  for  me.  You  found,  after  you  had 
married  him,  that  he  wasn't  the  Graham 
who  had  inherited  a  fortune.  Marriage! 
It  seems  to  be  a  mania  with  you.  How 
many  of  us  poor  devils  have  you  rooked 
with  your  infernal  beauty?  What's  God's 
idea,  anyhow?  Or  is  it  the  devil  himself 
who  fits  you  out,  covers  your  black  heart 
with  alluring  flesh?  No  matter.  The  first 
ship  out  or  Bilibid.  I  have  warned  you." 

Then  he  did  something  that  he  afterward 
regretted.  But  malice  burned  so  hotly  in 
his  veins  that  he  could  not  resist  the  im- 
pulse. He  walked  over  to  her  and,  before 
she  could  comprehend  his  purpose,  swept 
her  into  his  arms,  held  her  tightly  for  a  mo- 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

ment,  and  kissed  her,  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her 
throat.  Then  he  flung  her  roughly  back 
upon  the  divan,  stalked  from  the  room,  and 
closed  the  door  with  an  emphasis  which  pro- 
claimed that  it  was  to  stand  between  them 
eternally.  Once  he  reached  the  street,  he 
spat  and  rubbed  his  lips  energetically. 

He  had  been  a  fool  to  do  that.  He  had 
slipped  down  to  her  level.  But,  hang  it! 
it  was  the  only  way  he  could  make  her  feel 
anything,  the  viper! 

A  fool  indeed;  for  later  that  act  was  going 
to  cost  him  dearly. 

He  left  behind  a  tableau.  Not  until  his 
footsteps  died  away  did  the  woman  stir. 
Then  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  a  fury.  She 
swept  her  hand  savagely  across  her  mouth. 
She,  too,  spat. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  through  her  teeth,  in  a 
kind  of  animal  roar.  She  seized  the  divan 
pillow,  tore  at  it,  and  sent  it  hurtling  across 
the  room.  "Oh!" 

"There,  there!    Enough  of  that,  Berta!" 

A  man  stepped  from  behind  the  screen. 
He  was  notable  for  three  things,  his  bulk, 
his  straw-colored  hair,  and  the  pleasant  ex- 
pression of  his  smooth,  ruddy  face.  The 
ensemble  was  particularly  agreeable.  But 

2  9 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

in  detail,  somehow,  the  man  lost  out.  There 
wasn't  enough  skull  at  the  back  of  his  head, 
his  eyes  were  too  shallow,  there  was  a  bad 
droop  to  his  nether  lip.  For  all  these  de- 
fects, everything  about  the  man  suggested 
power — power  never  wastefully  applied. 

The  woman  whirled  upon  him.  "But 
you!"  her  voice  thick  with  passion.  "You 
saw  what  he  did?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  let  him  go?" 

"I  have  told  you.  If  there  is  one  man 
in  Manila  I  do  not  care  to  meet,  it's  the 
captain." 

"I  despise  you  all!"  She  flew  about  the 
room,  gesticulating. 

"You  will  die  of  apoplexy  some  day,  if 
you  ever  have  the  misfortune  to  grow  fat. 
Enough  of  that  nonsense.  That  goose  is 
dead;  but  there  are  others,  and  larger  golden 
eggs." 

"  But  I  hate  him !  I  want  him  broken,  dis- 
graced! Didn't  you  hear  him  order  me  out 
of  Manila?" 

"Don't  let  that  worry  you.  You'll  stay 
here  until  I'm  ready  to  leave.  I'll  hide  you 
over  in  the  Tondo." 

"What!    Among  the  natives?" 
10 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

The  man  crossed  the  room  and  caught 
hold  of  her.  "Be  sensible.  The  captain 
will  do  exactly  as  he  threatens.  It's  Bilibid 
if  I  don't  hide  you  at  once.  You  couldn't 
walk  five  blocks  up  the  Escolta  without  run- 
ning into  some  one  who  knows  you.  You 
left  a  trail  across  these  diggings,  my  tiger- 
kitten.  They  don't  call  you  The  Yellow 
Typhoon  for  nothing.  You've  got  to  keep 
under  cover,  since  we  can't  get  you  into  that 
villa  of  his.  These  are  war-times  and  I've 
big  work  to  do.  You'll  go  to  Tondo  be- 
cause it  is  my  will.  I've  let  you  play 
your  game;  now  you'll  help  me  play  mine. 
When  this  job  is  done  we'll  return  to  the 
States  and  live  like  nabobs.  I  tell  you, 
Berta,  there's  a  fortune  for  the  picking. 
Risks,  yes;  but  not  any  more  dangerous 
than  we've  been  accustomed  to.  These 
American  swine — " 

"Hush!" 

"All  right."  The  man  switched  into 
Danish.  "These  American  swine  don't 
shoot  spies;  they  arrest  them  and  let  them 
out  on  bail.  Ye  gods!  But  I  say,  I've 
got  a  little  surprise  for  you.  Remember 
those  sables  I  smuggled  in  last  spring? 

Well,  Wu  Fang  is  making  them  into  a  coat 

11 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

that  will  be  worth  seven  thousand  in  the 
States." 

"  Manchurian !"  disdainfully. 

"Real  Russian."  He  smoothed  her  hair; 
but  it  was  some  time  before  she  began  to 
purr.  "No  nonsense.  We'll  clear  out  of 
here  at  once.  I'll  take  you  to  the  Tondo 
and  you  can  rig  up  in  that  Chinese  costume 
of  yours.  You  can  ride  after  sundown,  and 
I'll  be  out  frequently.  I'll  fix  you  up  like 
the  Sultan's  favorite.  You  can  wear  a  cap 
outside  of  doors.  Inside,  it  won't  matter  if 
the  natives  see  your  hair." 

"For  how  long?" 

"Perhaps  two  weeks." 

"Something  of  naval  importance,"  she 
mused. 

"So  big  that  the  fatherland  will  pay  a 
million.  One  of  the  biggest  things  in  the 
world,  here  in  Manila;  and  it's  packed  away 
in  the  brain  of  that  experimental  husband 
of  yours.  That's  why  I  wanted  you  out 
there.  There  is  a  blue-print  at  that  villa. 
If  I  can't  land  the  big  goose,  I  can  land  that. 
If  we  can't  apply  the  principle,  we  can  learn 
what  it  is." 

"And  if  he  loses  it,  it  will  break  him?" 

"Something  like  that." 

12 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Then  I'll  go  peacefully  into  the  Tondo. 
The  thought  of  his  being  broken  will  keep 
me  alive.  Make  him  pay  for  those  kisses!" 

The  man  held  her  off  at  arm's-length. 
"  You're  a  queer  hawk.  I  don't  suppose 
there's  a  man  on  earth  you  really  care  for. 
You're  afraid  of  me;  that's  my  hold." 

11  Afraid  of  you?  No.  You  are  generally 
sensible  and  necessary.  And  I  happen  to  be 
your  wife.  You're  a  port  in  the  storm." 

"  There  seems  to  be  only  one  idea  in  your 
head — to  break  men,  twist  their  hearts  and 
empty  their  pockets." 

"I  hate  them.  I  have  always  hated 
them.  As  a  child  I  fought  the  boys  when 
they  tried  to  kiss  me.  I  was  born  that  way. 
Analyze  it?  I've  never  tried  to.  Perhaps 
I  am  Nemesis  for  all  the  wrongs  mankind 
has  done  womankind.  I  hate  them.  They 
never  kiss  me — even  you — that  I  don't  want 
to  strike  and  cut." 

"And  you've  been  successful  for  one  rea- 
son only." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"Naval  officers,  English  and  American, 
proud  and  inherently  afraid  of  scandal.  You 
may  thank  God  you  never  tried  your  game 
on  a  man  of  my  kidney.  Your  pretty  neck 

13 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

would  have  twisted  long  ago.  Mark  me, 
Berta,  you  are  mine.  Never  try  to  play 
any  of  those  tricks  on  me.  If  you  do  I'll 
kill  you  with  bare  hands.  To  you  I  am  a 
reliable  business  partner;  to  me  you're  the 
one  woman.  Remember  that.  You  hold 
me  because  you  are  always  a  bit  of  mystery. 
What's  behind  that  day  in  San  Francisco 
when  you  decided  to  cast  your  lot  with 
mine?  More  than  seven  years  gone,  and 
I've  never  found  out.  Some  man,  and  be- 
cause he  did  not  give  you  a  square  deal — all 
these  wrecks." 

"Do  you  want  the  truth?  You  are  the 
first  man  who  ever  laid  his  hand  on  me. 
I  ran  away  from  a  humdrum  world.  I 
wanted  adventure,  swift,  red-blooded.  I'm 
a  viking's  daughter." 

"I  can  believe  that.  You  don't  care  for 
money  or  jewels.  It's  the  game,  the  sport. 
Typhoons!  that's  you.  You  come  and  go 
across  men's  lives  exactly  like  a  typhoon. 
Wherever  you  pass — wreckage.  But  our 
captain  seems  to  have  escaped." 

"I  have  your  promise  in  regard  to  him." 

The  man  laughed.  "That's  one  of  your 
charms — you  stick  it  out.  What  are  you — 
German,  Dane,  Finn?  To  this  day  I  don't 

14 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

know.  But  always  keep  in  your  pretty 
head  that  you  are  mine.  Marry  them,  kiss 
them,  and  say  good-by ;  but  always  recollect 
that  I'm  under  the  latticed  window.  After 
all,  it's  just  as  well  that  you  didn't  go  out  to 
San  Miguel.  The  captain  has  a  partner. 
He'd  have  been  too  much  for  you." 

"In  what  way?" 

"Your  way.  Handsomest  man  in  the 
Asiatic  fleet,  and  rich.  He's  to  be  trans- 
ferred shortly  to  the  Atlantic.  And  if  I've 
got  the  right  of  it,  you  and  I  are  going  to  be 
very  much  interested  in  his  journey." 

"Rich  and  handsome,"  she  said,  rumi- 
natingly. 

The  man  smiled  ironically.  "An  officer 
who  has  never  had  an  affair;  ice,  where 
women  are  concerned.  I  dig  up  their  his- 
tories; part  of  my  game.  You  would  have 
about  as  much  chance  with  him  as  I  would 
in  a  sampan  in  the  middle  of  one  of  your 
happy-go-lucky  typhoons.  A  handsome, 
vigorous  young  man,  who  carries  a  Rajpu- 
tana  parrakeet  with  him  when  he  travels, 
a  talking  parrakeet.  Everybody  in  Manila 
has  heard  about  that  bird." 

"A  handsome  young  man  with  money 
and  a  talking  parrakeet!"  The  woman  be- 

15 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

gan  to  laugh.  "I  never  heard  anything 
like  that  before.  I  am  interested.  What's 
he  look  like?" 

The  man  took  out  a  wallet  from  which  he 
drew  a  newspaper  clipping.  ' i  That's  a  good 
likeness." 

"He  is  handsome!  .  .  .  Good  Heavens!" 

"Well?" 

"But  this  isn't  his  photograph.  It's  a 
crook's — 'Black'  Ellison,  wanted  for  dia- 
mond robbery  and  assault  in  San  Francisco." 

"The  two  look  enough  alike  to  be  useful 
.  .  .  maybe.  Not  a  physical  likeness;  it's 
merely  photographic.  I  never  overlook 
anything.  If  he  takes  the  journey  I  have 
in  mind,  it  may  be  of  use.  Photographi- 
cally, they  look  enough  alike  to  be  twins." 

The  woman  returned  the  clipping,  her 
eyes  somber.     She  walked  slowly  over  to  a 
window  and  stared  down  into  the  street— 
without  seeing  anything  of  the  busy  life 
below. 


CHAPTER  II 

OUT  San  Miguel  way  there  are  many 
two-storied  brick  villas  with  Spanish- 
red  tiles.  Sometimes  there  are  three  or  four 
almost  neighborly,  then  one  aloof  and  alone. 
Tn  Manila  most  white  folk  live  up-stairs, 
the  servants  down.  It  permits  white  folk 
to  talk  over  their  affairs  without  listeners — 
and  the  servants  to  run  away  to  cock-fights 
as  often  as  they  dare. 

One  of  these  isolated  villas  was  walled 
in,  except  on  the  river  side,  by  a  wall  of 
rubble  coated  with  whitewash.  Rising 
above  the  chevaux  de  frise  of  broken  bottles 
was  a  fringe  of  feathery  bamboo.  There 
was  an  alley  of  these  trees  from  the  gate  to 
the  door.  There  was  also  a  garden  ;_but  the 
precise  formality  with  which  it  had  been 
laid  out  was  a  mute  testimony  of  the  ab- 
sence of  womankind. 

Two  Americans  lived  there — bachelors. 
One  of  them  lived  there  continuously;  the 

17 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

other,  whenever  his  ship  was  in  port.  They 
were  officers  in  the  United  States  navy. 
An  odd  pair,  agreed  official  and  social 
Manila;  and  after  futile  efforts  to  make 
friends  with  them,  dismissed  them.  Odd, 
because  bachelor  officers  who  have  incomes 
outside  their  pay  are  generally  gay  sailor- 
men.  Off  duty,  these  two  formed  an  asso- 
ciation of  hermits.  They  never  went  any- 
where except  officially,  and  avoided  women 
as  other  men  avoided  the  plague.  One  of 
them  was  woman-shy;  the  other  hated 
them,  it  was  said. 

Captain  Hallowell  of  the  staff  would  in 
all  probability  never  go  to  sea  again,  ac- 
tively. An  experiment  had  severely  in- 
jured one  of  his  eyes,  though  the  defect  was 
not  noticeable.. 

Lieutenant-Commander  Mathison  was  an 
officer  of  the  line — a  fighting  sailor.  They 
were  as  unlike  physically  as  it  is  possible 
for  two  men  to  be. 

Hallowell  was  the  dreamer,  the  thinker. 
He  was  short,  thick,  rugged,  and  a  trifle 
gray.  His  head  and  short  beard  were  shot 
with  silver,  though  his  mustache  was  still 
black.  There  was  something  about  him 
that  reminded  you  of  the  gorilla.  You 

18 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

were  likely  to  carry  this  idea  in  your  head 
until  you  knew  him;  then  you  understood 
that  he  was  in  the  same  category  as  the 
St.  Bernard — the  gentlest  and  friendliest 
dog  in  the  world  until  thoroughly  aroused. 
They  called  him  a  woman-hater  with  some 
justice,  though  no  one  in  official  Manila 
ever  learned  the  true  facts,  not  even  Mathi- 
son,  who  surmised  that  Hallowell  had  run 
afoul  some  worthless  woman  and  had  got 
past  the  reefs  by  a  hair. 

Mathison  was  the  man  of  action.  He 
was  tall,  slender,  and  handsome,  with  a 
smooth  olive  skin.  This  deep  color  gave 
conspicuity  to  his  gray  eyes,  the  whites  of 
which  were  dazzling.  Every  line  and  turn 
of  his  face  gave  you  the  impression  that  by 
nature  he  was  amiable  in  the  extreme. 
Given  cause,  he  could  be  as  savage  and  re- 
lentless as  the  gorilla  his  friend  resembled. 

Woman-shy,  they  called  him,  because 
they  could  find  no  other  suitable  name  for 
the  puzzle.  He  was  always  courteous  when, 
by  those  accidents  of  chance  called  official 
receptions,  he  found  himself  among  women. 
But  there  was  always  a  cold  reserve  the 
brightest  eyes  could  not  batter  down.  Rest 
assured,  there  were  many  feminine  cam- 

19 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

paigns.  He  was  the  combination  of  two 
things  women  prize  highly,  greedily  or  sen- 
timentally— money  and  good  looks. 

What  had  the  aspect  of  shyness  was 
merely  an  idea,  held  to  with  surpassing  reso- 
lution. I  shall  tell  you  about  this  idea 
later  on.  There  are,  here  and  there  across 
this  world,  men  like  Mathison,  who  are 
neither  mollycoddles  nor  sanctimonious 
nincompoops.  They  are  not  gregarious— 
the  type  from  which  explorers  come,  men 
who  know  how  to  live  alone,  to  whom  the 
most  necessary  and  alluring  thing  in  life  is 
to  overcome  obstacles. 

This  resolution  had  toughened  Mathison, 
morally  and  physically.  Packed  away  in 
that  lithe  body  of  his  was  tremendous  vital- 
ity. He  was  perfectly  willing  to  be  called 
woman-shy.  Such  a  reputation  was  a  con- 
siderable barricade.  He  was  content  to 
rest  behind  it.  There  had  been  battles, 
bitter  conflicts.  There  are  certain  fires 
which  hypnotize;  one  must  reach  out  and 
touch  them.  I  might  say  that  this  idea  of 
his  was  always  in  a  state  of  siege. 

After  this  exposition,  it  sounds  odd  to 
remark  that  Mathison  was  as  full  of  ro- 
mance as  a  Chinese  water-chestnut  is  of 

20 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

starch,'  that  his  day-dreams  were  peopled 
with  lovely  women.  He  never  saw  a  beau- 
tiful woman  that  he  did  not  immediately 
clothe  her  in  his  colorful  imagination.  He 
rescued  her  from  Chinese  pirates,  he  was 
shipwrecked  and  cast  away  on  a  desert 
island  with  her,  he  tore  her  from  the  hands 
of  brigands  or  the  latticed  window  of  some 
rajah's  haremlik;  and  he  always  married 
her  in  the  end.  Everything  in  him  inclined 
toward  the  companionship  of  women,  and 
he  had  built  a  Chinese  wall  around  this 
inclination. 

Among  men,  however,  he  was  companion- 
able, witty,  humorous,  and  full  of  sound 
common  sense.  But  no  one  ever  called  him 
Jack,  not  even  Hallowell,  the  best  friend 
he  had.  He  was  always  John  or  Mathison 
to  his  equals  and  superiors,  and  "sir"  to 
his  subordinates.  Hallowell,  however,  had 
compromised  on  "Mat."  And  yet  Mathi- 
son bubbled  with  personal  magnetism. 

You  never  get  deeply  into  a  naval  officer's 
character  by  rubbing  elbows  with  him  in 
wardrooms  or  officers'  clubs.  If  you  want 
to  know  the  real  man,  go  down  into  the 
boiler-rooms,  the  gun-rooms,  anywhere  but 

the  quarter-deck.     The  rough-necks  will  tell 

21 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

you.  They  sometimes  weigh  you  with  a 
glance.  Two  things  they  require  of  you — 
absolute  justice  and  firmness.  That  was 
Mathison  to  his  men ;  and  he  always  backed 
these  attributes  with  a  smiling  eye.  There 
was  something  in  the  snap  of  his  voice  that 
inclined  men  to  obey  him  at  once,  without 
question;  not  that  they  were  afraid  of  him, 
but  that  they  knew  he  was  right.  In  the 
navy — in  all  navies — there  are  underground 
wireless  stations.  A  man's  reputation  trav- 
els from  ship  to  ship,  and  when  an  officer  is 
transferred  the  men  try  him  out  just  to  see 
if  his  crown  is  of  tinsel  or  of  gold. 

A  fighting-sailor  with  red  blood,  with  a 
born  gambler's  interest  in  chance,  winning 
or  losing  with  a  smile,  as  you  shall  sec;  thirty 
years  of  age,  and  no  anchor  to  windward. 

He  never  forgot  anything.  They  said  of 
him  that  he  could  hide  his  collar-button 
during  a  dream  and  go  directly  to  it  in  the 
morning.  Hallowell,  however,  was  very 
absent-minded.  Often  he  would  go  about 
the  living-room  in  search  of  his  pipe,  in  the 
end  to  find  it  dangling  in  his  teeth.  Or  he 
would  wash  his  face  with  his  spectacles  on 
and  wonder  what  in  thunderation  ailed  his 
sound  eye. 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Hallowell  he,  too,  was  full  of  romance — 
miracles  in  steel,  visions  which  cast  into 
shape  huge  fighting-machines,  tremendous 
guns,  flying  torpedoes.  He  was,  aside  from 
his  official  duties,  a  successful  inventor.  Few 
of  the  grim  floating  forts  of  the  navy  were 
without  certain  devices  of  his.  He  had  just 
completed  plans  which  eventually  were  go- 
ing to  cause  the  German  Admiralty  a  good 
deal  of  anxiety. 

There  were  still  two  or  three  points  he  had 
not  cleared  up  to  his  own  satisfaction.  The 
plans  were  absolutely  complete  as  they 
stood;  and  he  believed  he  saw  a  chance  to 
reduce  the  complexity  of  certain  phases; 
and  he  was  hammering  away  at  this  prob- 
lem after  hours,  often  far  into  the  night. 

Mathison,  Hallowell  and  Company  (the 
Company  being  the  Rajputana  parrakeet) ; 
an  odd  pair  of  men,  rather  misunderstood, 
with  few  intimates,  sharing  a  deep,  abiding 
love,  never  spoken  of,  but  tacitly  understood. 
They  were  jocularly  known  as  "The  Two 
Orphans"  and  the  villa  as  "The  Orphan- 
age," as  both  men  were  without  immediate 
family  ties. 

Lately  Hallowell  had  formed  the  habit 
of  going  to  the  Botanical  Gardens  for  a 

23 


half-hour's  ramble,  between  four  and  five. 
He  had  discovered  that  this  mild  exercise 
cleared  his  mind  of  all  routine  and  left  it 
free  to  creative  musings.  He  tramped 
about  the  paths  at  a  moderate  gait,  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  the  tip  of  his  short, 
gray-peppered  beard  projecting  like  a  bow- 
sprit over  his  collar.  I  doubt  if  during 
these  pleasant  peregrinations  he  ever  saw 
anything  but  the  white  markings  on  blue- 
prints. Half  an  hour  to  the  minute,  then  he 
would  shake  off  the  spell,  set  his  shoulders, 
and  hurry  away  for  the  trolley  to  San  Miguel. 

Having  delivered  his  ultimatum  to  the 
woman  known  as  The  Yellow  Typhoon  and 
having  learned,  on  the  following  day,  that 
she  had  left  the  hotel  in  the  Escolta,  all 
thought  of  her  went  out  of  his  mind  com- 
pletely. It  was  an  unhappy  page  turned 
down  for  good.  But  to-day,  one  week  later, 
as  he  came  out  of  his  day-dreams,  she 
popped  into  his  head. 

A  wave  of  shame  ran  over  him.  He 
would  never  forgive  himself  for  that  vio- 
lence. Not  that  he  felt  any  pity  toward 
the  woman.  The  act  had  lowered  himself 
eternally  in  his  own  eyes;  the  luster  was 
gone  from  his  self-esteem.  He  had  kissed 

24 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

another  man's  wife,  not  his  own.  And 
what  was  worse,  she  might  interpret  the 
act  as  a  sign  that  he  still  cared  for  her  and 
try  to  re-enter  his  life  at  some  later  day. 
Fool!  A  mad  impulse  to  hurt  her,  and  he 
had  hurt  only  himself.  Well,  the  damage 
was  done;  berating  his  folly  would  not  wipe 
it  off  the  slate. 

Suddenly  his  sound  eye  lost  its  introspec- 
tive look  and  became  alert.  Coming  down 
the  path  toward  him  was  a  woman.  She 
was  dressed  in  pongee,  a  sola-topee  on  her 
head.  Round  this  sun-helmet  ran  the  folds 
of  a  gray  veil  which  could  be  lowered  or 
raised  at  will.  At  this  moment  the  wom- 
an's face  was  clear.  It  was  young  and 
vividly  beautiful.  Her  hair  was  a  ruddy 
gold,  like  the  tips  of  ripe  wheat  after  rain. 
The  sun,  directly  behind  her,  cast  a  golden 
nimbus  on  each  side  of  her  head.  Her  eyes 
were  purple-blue,  like  wooji-violets,  and  her 
skin  was  the  tint  of  pale  amber.  She  walked 
with  a  free  stride  of  one  who  loved  the  air 
and  sunshine.  She  saw  Hallowell  only  after 
he  had  deliberately  stepped  in  front  of  her, 
blocking  the  way. 

Her  mouth  opened  slightly  and  a  vague 
bewilderment  took  the  zest  out  of  her  face. 

3  25 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Still  in  town,  then?" 

"Sir  .  .  .!" 

He  interrupted  with  a  laugh.  "  You're 
magnificent;  I'll  always  grant  you  that.  You 
should  have  gone  on  the  stage.  But  I'm  no 
longer  to  be  fooled.  The  pearl  is  gone  from 
the  oyster,  the  juice  from  the  orange;  so  why 
tarry,  pretty  blackmailer?  I  warned  you 
to  clear  out,  and  I  thought  you'd  have  sense 
enough  to  do  so.  To-morrow  morning  I'll 
hunt  for  you;  and  if  I  find  you  I'll  have  you 
locked  up.  God  knows  how  you  women  do 
it!  Here  you  are  straight  out  of  perdition, 
with  more  beauty  than  ever.  And  inno- 
cence! That's  the  pitfall;  your  look  of 
innocence.  That's  what  draws  us  poor, 
trusting  fools.  Well,  the  night  to  clear  out 
in.  If  I  find  you  to-morrow  I'll  stamp 
on  you  as  I  would  a  cobra.  The  Yellow 
Typhoon!  Some  poor  devil  named  you 
well.  But  you'll  never  break  another  white 
man,  not  in  these  parts.  I  apologize  for 
those  kisses.  I  forgot  you  weren't  my  wife. 
I'm  giving  you  until  morning." 

Insolently  he  swung  on  his  heel  and 
marched  down  the  path. 

The  woman  remained  exactly  where  he 
had  left  her,  in  the  center  of  the  path.  Have 

M 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

you  ever  seen  a  clean,  upstanding  flower 
suddenly  beaten  down  by  a  squall  of  rain? 
Her  bodily  attitude  resembled  that,  at  least 
for  a  space.  One  hand  went  slowly  to  her 
eyes,  then  fell  limply  to  her  side.  But  soon 
she  stiffened,  and  there  were  volcanic  flashes 
in  her  eyes.  As  Hallowell  vanished  behind 
the  clove-trees  she  turned.  Near  by  she 
saw  a  marine  and  he  was  eying  her  curiously. 
Evidently  he  had  witnessed  the  scene.  She 
approached  him. 

What  followed,  the  marine  himself  re- 
counted at  mess  that  night. 

"I  was  amblin'  along  at  a  safe  distance. 
My  orders  were  t'  keep  ol'  Pop  Hallowell 
under  eye  s'  long  as  he  was  in  th'  Gar- 
dens. Hennessy  picks  him  up  outside  an' 
follows  him  until  he  gits  safe  on  th'  trolley. 
Well,  he  was  goin'  along,  when  down  the 
path  comes  a  lady.  She  walked  as  if  she 
didn't  know  where  she  was  goin',  either. 
An'  out  steps  Pop  in  front  of  her,  like  he 
was  a  gay  bird  with  the  ladies.  Th'  dame 
gives  him  th'  haughty.  But  he  comes  back. 
Her  mouth  opens  a  little,  but  she  don't  make 
no  move.  I  couldn't  hear  nothin',  but  Pop 
was  layin'  down  some  law  or  other,  which 
he  winds  up  with  a  bang  on  his  palm,  an' 

27 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

marches  off,  with  the  lady  starin'  after  him 
like  I'd  stare  if  I  saw  a  flyin'-fish  come  int' 
th'  mess  port  an'  ask  for  whitebait. 

"I  kind  o'  thought  I'd  move  on,  when  she 
pipes  me  an'  comes  over. 

"'Who  was  that  officer?'  she  asks  me. 
Bo,  believe  me,  she  had  all  the  little  Marys 
an'  Normas  an'  Paulines  in  th'  movies  laid 
away  with  the  long-cruise  eggs.  Gee!  You'll 
gimme  th'  ha-ha,  but  I  on'y  needed  a  look 
t'  tell  that  she  was  straight. 

'" Well,'  I  says,  'that's  Captain  Hallowell, 
miss,'  I  says. 

'"Captain  Hallowell,'  she  repeats  after 
me.  'Where  does  he  live?' 

"  'He  has  a  villa  out  in  San  Miguel,  on  th' 
Pasig,'  I  says.  'He  an'  Lieutenant-Com- 
mander Mathison  live  there  together.' 

"'He's  not  married,  then?' 

"I  laughs.  'No,  lady.  Both  of  'em  are 
gun-shy.'  She  looks  puzzled  an'  I  adds, 
'They  don't  have  nothin'  t'  do  with  the 
ladies,  miss.' 

'"Oh!    Then  he's  th'  inventor?' 

" '  That's  him,  miss.'  Then  I  freezes  up 
a  bit,  rememberin'  orders.  I'm  t'  report 
anybody  who  asks  questions  about  oP  Pop. 
But  I  tumbles  that  she  ain't  no  officer's 

28 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

wife  or  nothin',  an'  I  asks  what  he'd  said 
to  her. 

"'He  mistook  me  for  some  one  else/  she 
says.  So  help  me,  if  there's  two  like  that 
in  Manila,  th'  place  is  due  t'  go  on  th'  blink 
in  a  week.  Then  she  lowers  th'  veil  an' 
goes  off  toward  th'  exit,  me  trailin'.  Had 
t'  find  out  where  she  was  puttin'  up.  An' 
hang  me  if  she  doesn't  go  plump  into  that 
joint  in  th'  Escolta  where  Murphy  an'  me 
was  thrown  out  last  month  an'  just  missed 
restin'  up  in  th'  brig.  Which  shows  that 
you  can't  dope  a  woman  out  by  her  looks." 

The  young  woman — she  was  possibly 
twenty-six — eventually  reached  her  room. 
Her  maid  welcomed  her  effusively. 

"  Sarah  we  must  leave  here  at  once. 
Pack." 

" Another  hotel  before  we  sail?"  cried 
the  astonished  maid. 

"Yes.  And  until  I  give  you  further  or- 
ders never  speak  my  name.  Always  call 
me  madame.  Be  on  your  guard  about  this. 
I'm  very  fond  of  you,  and  I've  let  you  have 
your  way  often.  It  may  be  a  matter  of  life 
and  death.  We  shall  dine  here  in  the  room. 
Have  a  carriage  at  the  curb  at  six-thirty. 

29 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Fortunately  our  heavy  luggage  went  on. 
When  you  pack  the  steamer-trunk,  lay  all 
the  darker  and  heavier  things  on  top.  And 
the  box  of  make-up  where  I  can  reach  it 
handily.  I  have  decided  to  grow  old  quick- 
ly. I  understand,  Sarah.  You  are  becom- 
ing bewildered.  No  less  so  am  I." 

"Madame's  nerves  .  .  ." 

"They  happen  to  be  steel  now.  Don't 
worry  about  me.  Only,  be  sure  always  to 
obey  me  ...  if  you  love  me!" 

"If  I  love  you!  Oh,  madame,  a  mother 
could  not  love  her  daughter  more  than  I 
love  you!  You  left  America  so  gaily  and 
happily  to  see  this  Orient.  The  sea  voyage 
built  you  up.  And  then,  that  dreadful 
night  in  Shanghai.  You  came  and  woke  me 
and  clung  to  me  all  night,  and  you  would 
not  speak.  And  then  it  began.  We  move 
from  one  place  to  another,  not  like  persons 
touring — like  people  who  have  done  some- 
thing wrong.  And  I  know  that  you  have 
done  nothing  wrong.  Ah,  madame,  what 
is  happening  to  us?" 

"So  strange  a  thing,  Sarah,  that  your 
poor  brain  would  not  accept  the  facts  if 
I  told  them.  Be  patient  with  me." 

"Oh,  madame,  who  would  not  be  patient 

30 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

with  you?  I  am  French;  we  know  what  the 
word  gratitude  means.  Command  me;  I 
obey.  But  yes!  Here  is  a  cable  for  you, 
madame.  I  will  go  order  the  dinner  and 
the  carriage." 

Her  mistress  took  the  cablegram  ab- 
sently. She  was  not  at  all  excited  over  the 
receipt  of  it,  for  the  simple  reason  she  knew 
exactly  what  it  would  contain — a  single 
word.  Hurry.  Once  a  week,  often  twice, 
this  same  distracted  word.  Hurry.  It  was 
always  at  Cook's  or  at  the  American  Ex- 
press. The  poor  man!  He  would  soon  be 
pulling  his  hair.  When  she  heard  the  door 
close  behind  the  maid,  instinctively  she 
picked  out  a  channel  'twixt  the  bed  and 
chairs  and  proceeded  to  navigate  it  back 
and  forth. 

The  Yellow  Typhoon!  They  called  her 
that,  strange  men,  in  Yokohama,  Tokio, 
Hong -Kong,  Shanghai;  and  always  with 
that  air  men  use  toward  women  of  a  certain 
type.  Everything  in  her  called  out  wildly 
for  vengeance,  reprisal;  and  she  was  bound 
tragically,  inconceivably,  like  a  dreamer  in 
the  mesh  of  some  monstrous  nightmare.  .  .  . 
To  stamp  on  her  as  he  would  a  cobra,  if 
he  found  her!  Helpless;  all  she  could  do 

31 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

to  defend  herself  would  be  to  move  on, 
hide.  That  was  what  galled  her;  she  could 
not  retaliate.  But  one  thing  she  could  do — 
forestall,  anticipate,  nullify.  And  oh!  she 
would  do  that  with  all  the  strength  and 
cunning  she  possessed. 

Horrible  as  it  was,  that  meeting  in  the 
Gardens  was  fortunate.  She  now  possessed 
hand  hold.  Hallowell,  a  naval  inventor, 
living  in  a  villa  out  in  San  Miguel,  on  the 
Pasig.  Blue-prints.  There  was  sense  to 
all  those  broken  sentences  which  had  come 
through  yonder  door  a  few  days  gone. 
Danish  words — her  own  blood-tongue!  She 
had  not  seen  the  man,  so  she  could  not 
describe  him.  But  his  companion! 

She  stopped  before  the  mirror  and  studied 
her  face  carefully.  What  an  incredible 
thing  it  was!  Mirrors,  once  so  pleasant  to 
gaze  into,  had  now  become  chambers  of 
horror.  She  no  longer  saw  herself — she  saw 
a  grave  open  and  the  dead  arise.  After 
eight  years!  And  to  stumble  upon  the  truth 
through  the  agency  of  strange  men  address- 
ing her  familiarly!  The  Yellow  Typhoon! 
Drawn  by  instinct,  repelled  by  intellect  and 
breeding,  she  felt  as  if  invisible  wild  horses 
were  rending  her 

32 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

In  that  room  there,  within  reach  of  her 
voice  and  hand !  Whither  had  she  gone,  this 
ghost?  Terror  and  cowardly  fear  had  held 
her  back  from  making  her  own  presence 
known;  and  now  it  was  too  late.  She  had 
fallen  asleep  somewhere,  back  there  in  China, 
and  hadn't  yet  waked  up.  That  must  be  it ! 
The  Yellow  Typhoon!  And  she  had  stum- 
bled across  the  wrecks  innocently — across 
an  open  grave  which  had  never  been  filled! 
Berta,  in  the  next  room!  Who,  then,  was 
in  the  grave  in  Greenwood?  The  malicious 
cruelty  of  it! 

Very  well.  She  would  telephone  this 
Captain  Hallowell.  She  would  warn  him. 

She  became  conscious  of  the  unopened 
cablegram.  She  tore  off  the  edge  of  the  en- 
velope. For  a  moment  she  thought  there 
must  be  some  mistake.  Jargon.  Then  she 
awoke. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  She  ran  over  to  her 
steamer-trunk  and  things  flew  about  for  a 
space.  The  result  was  a  diary-book  from 
the  rear  pages  of  which  she  took  a  folded 
square  of  tissue-paper.  She  sat  down, 
cross-legged,  and  laid  this  square  carefully 
upon  a  knee.  Ten  minutes  later  she  had 
the  message  decoded. 

33 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Mathison.  Hallowell's  blue-prints.  Nippon 
Mam.  He  may  be  followed.  Sail  with  him.  Keep 
in  touch  with  Washington  wireless.  This  is  your 
chance. 

She  sprang  up,  found  a  match,  and  ap- 
plied it  to  the  cablegram,  powdering  the 
ashes.  Alive!  She  was  alive  again.  What 
she  had  stumbled  upon  disconnectedly  was 
now  made  clear.  Her  chance!  She  had  a 
great  debt  to  pay,  and  here  was  the  oppor- 
tunity to  pay  it.  Pay  it  she  would,  through 
fire  and  water.  She  would  show  them  that 
there  was  one  who  could  be  grateful.  Fame 
and  riches  and  honor,  she  owed  for  these. 
She  would  pay  the  debt. 

Singular  thing!  In  these  months  of 
wandering  in  this  bewildering  maze  of  dark 
and  yellow  peoples  no  one  had  ever  recog- 
nized her.  And  yet  it  wasn't  so  singular, 
if  one  thought  it  out.  Her  world  was  at 
home,  busy  with  war. 

She  would  telephone  Hallowell  at  once 
and  warn  him  that  he  was  in  danger.  And 
the  thought  of  him  brought  back  the 
thought  of  Berta.  The  colossal  irony!  So 
be  it.  If  Berta  stood  in  her  way,  she  would 
crush  her,  relentlessly,  inexorably.  And 
what  was  Berta?  Only  a  wandering  ghost, 

34 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

a  lie.  A  phantom  men  called  The  Yellow 
Typhoon. 

Her  telephone  call,  however,  was  not 
answered.  There  was  no  one,  apparently, 
at  the  villa  in  San  Miguel.  She  would  have 
to  drive  out  and  leave  a  note.  Either  the 
captain  or  Mathison,  his  friend,  would  find 
it  when  he  returned.  She  found  a  Tagalog 
boy  with  a  tough  Manchurian  pony,  and 
she  went  clattering  away  into  the  night. 
The  dry  monsoon  carried  the  dust  along 
with  them. 

Just  about  this  time  a  man  in  civilian 
clothes,  but  with  authority  written  dis- 
tinctly on  his  tanned  face,  entered  the  hotel 
in  the  Escolta.  The  proprietor  began  obse- 
quiously to  dry-wash  his  hands. 

"The  Senor  Morgan!" 

"Where's  Berta  Nordstrom,  the  woman 
known  as  The  Yellow  Typhoon?" 

"She?"  A  gesture.  "She  went  away  a 
week  ago,  senor." 

"  She  is  here  now.  She  was  seen  to  enter 
here  a  little  after  five. " 

"That  is  impossible."  , 

"I  say  she  did.  Bring  her  down.  She 
wore  pongee  and  a  white  pith  helmet." 

"She?    Oh,  that  was  not  the  Nordstrom 

35 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

woman.  No  one  here  has  seen  this  woman's 
face.  She  wears  a  veil  always,  and  dines 
in  her  room." 

"Bring  her  down." 

"But,  senor,  she  left  at  six-thirty." 

"What?    Where  did  she  go?" 

"That  I  don't  know." 

"The  devil!    Any  man  with  her?" 

"No,  senor.  Shall  I  take  you  to  her 
room?" 

"No.     She  fooled  you." 

"That  is  not  possible,  for  the  two  women 
were  here  at  the  same  time.  I  can  prove 
that,  senor." 

"I  have  seen  the  Nordstrom  woman. 
The  description  of  the  woman  in  the  pith 
helmet  agrees  absolutely." 

"I  cannot  help  that,  senor.  They  were 
here  at  the  same  time,  though  they  did  not 
meet." 

"All  right.  If  I  find  you  haven't  told 
me  the  truth,  we'll  lock  up  the  place.  You 
are  not  very  good  Americans  around  here. 
Good  night."  Outside  in  the  street  Morgan 
of  the  Intelligence — who  switched  from  uni- 
form to  mufti  frequently — pushed  back  his 
hat,  perplexed.  "Two?  Impossible!  A 
trick.  I'll  set  a  man  to  watch.  I'll  quiz 

36 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

that  marine  again.  If  he  didn't  describe 
the  Nordstrom  woman,  I'll  eat  my  hat!" 

Could  he  have  peered  into  one  of  the 
thousand  huts  of  bamboo  and  nipa  palm, 
in  the  Tondo,  he  might  have  been  convinced 
of  one  thing — that  there  was  still  a  thrill  left 
in  the  dizzy  old  world  for  men  even  as  blase 
as  himself.  A  woman,  wearing  the  gay 
little  costume  of  a  high-caste  Chinese  wom- 
an, sat  on  a  cushion,  her  legs  curled  under 
her.  She  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  From 
a  brass  bowl  at  one  side  of  her  rose  faint 
spirals  of  smoke.  Into  this  bowl  she  flicked 
the  ash.  There  was  a  smile,  inscrutable, 
on  her  lips — the  smile  particular  to  one  god 
and  one  woman,  Buddha  and  Mona  Lisa. 
By  and  by  she  picked  up  a  fresh  cigarette; 
but  she  did  not  light  it.  She  broke  it  in 
two.  In  fancy  it  was  a  man. 

The  little  Tagalog  serving-girl,  squatting 
on  the  floor  and  blowing  chaff  from  rice, 
could  not  keep  her  wondering  gaze  off  this 
exquisite  creature  whose  hair  shone  like 
the  gold  bangles  on  the  ankles  of  the  danc- 
ing-girls. There  would  be  a  good  deal  of 
chaff  in  that  rice  when  the  time  came  to 
cook  it. 


CHAPTER  III 

IMMEDIATELY  after  "chow"  that 
1  night  Mathison  and  Hallowell  entered 
the  living-room,  filling  their  pipes.  They 
were  both  smiling,  each  with  the  idea  that  he 
was  bucking  up  the  other.  For  they  were 
at  the  parting  of  the  ways,  these  two,  and 
they  might  never  meet  again.  At  dinner 
they  had  talked  of  everything  but  that 
which  was  uppermost  in  their  thoughts.  In 
the  center  of  the  living-room  was  a  long 
trencher-table — a  slab  of  wonderful  mahog- 
any propped  by  enormous  boles  of  Cal- 
cutta bamboo.  One  end  was  stacked  with 
books  and  magazines.  The  blank  space  at 
the  other  end  was  HallowelTs  pet  abiding- 
place.  Here,  after  the  day's  work  was 
done,  he  would  wrestle  with  his  mechanical 
problems. 

Hallowell  fired  his  pipe  and  held  out  the 
flaming  match  toward  Mathison,  who  man- 
aged to  catch  the  last  flicker. 

38 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

They  waited  until  Paolo,  the  Spanish 
servant,  went  below  with  the  dishes.  Of 
late  they  had  become  a  little  suspicious  of 
the  Spaniard.  He  loitered  in  the  dining- 
room  when  there  was  no  legitimate  excuse. 

"Well,  you  lucky  son-of-a-gun,"  said 
Hallowell,  "in  a  few  weeks  you'll  be  ram- 
paging up  the  Main,  with  proper  sea-boots 
on  your  feet  and  a  drab  terrier  under  them. 
Lord!  how  I  wish  I  were  thirty  instead  of 
forty-five!  But  I've  walked  my  last  bridge. 
This  is  my  chart-room.  Of  course,  if  I 
wanted  to  pull  a  wire  or  two,  I  could  get 
to  Washington.  But  I've  certain  ideas 
about  the  navy,  and  I  don't  want  them 
actually  touched.  In  Washington  a  chap 
sees  the  seams  of  the  service,  wires,  time- 
serving, and  all  that.  But  out  here  it's 
the  fighting  -  machine.  We  can't  all  go 
potting  subs,  but  some  of  us  can  make  the 
potting  easier." 

Mathison  put  his  hands  on  the  other's 
shoulders.  "Bob,  you're  the  most  lovable 
man  God  ever  gave  to  another  for  a  com- 
rade. And  I'm  going  to  miss  you  like 
the  devil.  And  more,  I'm  going  to  worry 
over  you,  you're  such  an  infernally  absent- 
minded  dub." 


"That's  a  gift,  that.  We  absent-minded 
dubs  are  always  too  busy  to  waste  time 
wailing.  Lord !  but  this  coming  and  going 
of  yours  has  been  pleasant  to  me!  I  know, 
sometimes  I  have  been  moody  and  grumpy; 
but  I  believe  you  always  understood." 

"Yes.  A  woman  somewhere  who  wasn't 
worth  it." 

Hallowell  nodded. 

"And  she's  gone,  vanished,"  went  on 
Mathison. 

"How  do  you  figure  that  out?"  asked 
Hallowell,  curiously. 

"For  some  days  now  you  have  been  going 
about  with  a  tune  on  your  lips — airs  from 
old  light  operas  we  went  to  in  the  happy 
days.  I've  never  asked  questions5  I'm  not 
going  to  now." 

"A  nightmare,  and  I've  just  waked  up," 
said  Hallowell,  staring  at  the  coal  in  his 
pipe.  "It  wasn't  natural  for  me  to  gloom. 
I'm  cheerful  by  nature,  the  same  as  you. 
I'd  tell  you  the  whole  story  if  I  thought  it 
worth  while.  Women  are  all  right.  It  was 
my  misfortune  to  become  interested  in  the 
wrong  one.  I  wonder  if  Cunningham  would 
come  up  and  share  the  place  with  me?" 

"That's  odd!    This  very  day  I  tapped 

40 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

him  on  the  subject  and  he's  crazy  to  get 
out  here." 

"That's  fine!  Two  years,  and  they've 
been  the  happiest  I've  ever  known." 

"God  bless  you,  Bob!  Remember,  I 
made  no  pull  for  this." 

"You  poor  lubber!  The  whole  lot  of  us 
have  been  watching  you  eat  your  heart  out. 
You  had  to  go.  And  they  had  to  send  you. 
Saturday.  It's  a  great  adventure;  an  ad- 
venture the  moment  you  step  on  board  the 
Nippon  Maru  until  you  march  up  Fifth 
Avenue  in  the  Peace  Parade !  Funny  thing. 
You'll  get  through.  Feel  it;  one  of  those 
old  wives'  hunches.  Made  all  your  plans?" 

"Yes." 

"How  are  you  going  to  carry  them?" 

Mathison  laughed.  "Not  even  to  you, 
Bob.  But  these  little  blue-prints  of  yours 
are  going  to  Washington.  Fire  and  water 
and  poison  gas  won't  stop  me.  This  is  go- 
ing to  be  rather  an  unusual  stunt.  The 
moment  I  land  in  San  Francisco  I  shall  be 
under  the  friendly  shadow  of  the  greatest 
organization  of  its  kind  in  the  world — the 
Secret  Service.  When  I  step  from  the  ship 
I  shall  wear  a  little  green  ribbon;  from  train 
to  train  I  shall  wear  it.  I  sha'n't  know 

4  41 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

anything  about  it,  but  those  boys  will 
have  their  eyes  upon  me.  Simple;  can't 
fail.  At  any  time,  if  I'm  in  trouble,  all  I've 
got  to  do  is  to  set  up  a  yodel  and  the  trouble 
is  eliminated.  On  the  other  hand,  I'm  go- 
ing to  stay  snug  in  my  cabin.  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  stick  my  head  out  until  I  step  from 
one  train  to  another.  On  board  the  Maru, 
however,  I've  got  to  depend  upon  myself. 
The  thing  has  got  about,  Bob.  I  don't 
mean  my  end  of  it.  It's  got  about  that 
you've  done  a  big  thing.  I've  a  strong  idea 
that  I'm  being  watched." 

"No  doubt  of  it.  You're  the  only  inti- 
mate friend  I  have.  Those  damned  Ger- 
mans! They're  as  thick  as  flies  in  this  town. 
And  how  the  devil  is  a  man  to  know? 
Swedes,  Danes,  Norwegians,  Finns — Teu- 
tonic, all  of  them.  But  so  long  as  their 
papers  are  correct  we  can't  lay  a  hand  on 
them." 

"When  will  you  have  the  extra  stuff 
ready?" 

"To-night.  I'll  have  it  all  out  on  old 
No.  9  print.  And  you'll  carry  that  along 
with  you." 

"Honestly,  Bob,  I'm  worried  about  that 
print  being  here  in  the  house.  I  don't  trust 

42 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Paolo.  He's  Spanish;  and  while  the  Euro- 
pean Spaniard  has  forgotten,  the  Philippine 
Spaniard  still  covertly  hates  us." 

" Nonsense!  No.  9  is  utterly  worthless 
without  the  key-print.  But  if  anything 
should  happen  to  me  before  you  go,  don't 
forget  that  little  red  book  in  the  wall  safe. 
Morgan  of  the  Intelligence  gave  me  those 
names.  They'll  be  worth  looking  at.  Sus- 
pects, too  clever  to  handle." 

"To  hell  with  the  Ki!"  came  raucously 
from  the  darkened  dining-room. 

The  two  men  laughed. 

"You'll  be  taking  Malachi  along  with 
you?"  asked  Hallo  well. 

"Would  you  like  him?" 

"Like  him?  Why,  God  bless  you,  I'd 
be  having  you  to  talk  to,  with  that  bird 
around.  He's  a  wonder.  The  way  he  picks 
up  things  is  uncanny." 

"He's  yours." 

"Honestly?  WeU,  by  George!  That's 
mighty  fine  of  you." 

"He's  served  his  turn.  He  amused  me 
when  I  hadn't  any  one  to  talk  to.  He's 
yours  as  much  as  mine,  anyhow.  He  talks 
for  you  as  much  as  he  does  for  me.  Besides, 
the  poor  little  begger  hates  the  sea.  If  I 

43 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

~j 

took  him  aboard  the  destroyer  he'd  break 
his  neck  trying  to  keep  on  his  perch." 

"That  bucks  me  up  a  lot,  Mat.  I'm  very 
fond  of  that  parrakeet.  Going  out?" 

"Tailor.  I'm  buying  a  cits.  Best  for  me 
to  travel  incog,  if  I  can.  Last  fitting.  I'll 
be  back." 

"Fire  and  water  and  poison  gas;  you'll 
pull  through." 

"You  bet  I  will!  Think  of  the  yarn- 
spinning  when  I'm  off  duty!  I  can  tell  the 
wondering  gunners  that  I  saw  the  begin- 
ning of  the  idea,  that  I  know  the  old  son- 
of-a-gun  who  invented  it.  Nine  o'clock." 

"I'll  be  here,"  replied  HaUoweU,  "wait- 
ing for  you.  Though  I  may  turn  in  any 
time  later  than  nine.  So  long." 

Mathison  went  down  the'  path.  Half- 
way to  the  gate  he  turned  and  stared  at  the 
lighted  windows.  He  could  see  the  shadow 
of  Hallowell's  huge  shoulders  on  the  cur- 
tain. The  dear  old  stick-in-the-mud !  What 
would  he  do  without  some  one  to  watch 
over  him?  He  strode  on,  closing  the  gate 
behind  him  with  a  musical  clang. 

His  tailoring  required  more  time  than 
he  had  made  allowance  for;  the  Chinaman 
hadn't  made  the  coat^sleeves  quite  short 

44 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

enough.  Thus,  when  he  stepped  off  the 
trolley-car  which  bisected  the  street  less  than 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  villa — a  five 
minutes'  walk,  tonicky  on  glorious  nights 
like  this — it  was  nine-twenty  by  his  wrist- 
watch. 

He  swung  along  with  a  jaunty  stride, 
whistling  the  latest  tune  that  had  "come 
out,"  "Oh,  boy,  where  do  we  go  from  here?" 
He  felt  like  a  butterfly  that  had  just  cut 
through  its  cocoon  and  found  the  world 
a  pretty  good  place  to  live  in.  In  two 
months'  time  he  would  have  his  drab  little 
terrier  under  his  sea-boots.  But  for  the 
thought  of  leaving  Bob  behind,  he  would 
have  been  the  happiest  man  on  earth. 

These  cogitations  came  to  an  abrupt  end. 
He  stopped.  A  picture  had  flashed  into 
range.  A  carriage,  driven  like  mad,  had 
swooped  under  an  arc-light;  and  the  ve- 
hicle was  coming  in  his  direction.  A  golden 
fog  of  dust  rose  up  under  the  lamp.  As 
there  was  another  arc -light  opposite  to 
where  he  stood,  Mathison  decided  to  wait. 

The  carriage  came  thundering  on.  The 
driver  was  standing  up.  As  it  rattled  past — 
on  the  two  port  wheels — Mathison  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  passenger.  A  woman!  And 

45 


she  was  holding  on  for  dear  life.  He  gathered 
one  vague  impression — that  she  was  young. 

"What  the  dickens  is  her  hurry?"  He 
drew  his  hand  across  his  chin.  "No  boat 
or  train  at  this  hour.  Drunken  Tagalog, 
probably.  Too  late  for  me  to  do  anything." 

He  continued  on.  He  began  whistling 
another  tune.  "Where's  the  girl  for  me?" 

"She  may  pass  me  by  and  never  know 
She  was  the  girl  for  me!" 

When  he  reached  the  villa  gate  he  looked 
up  inquiringly.  The  incandescent  lamp 
projecting  from  the  keystone  was  out. 
Usually  this  burned  until  dawn.  Mathison 
gave  it  a  passing  thought — wires  burned  out, 
probably — unlocked  the  gate  and  marched 
down  the  bamboo-lined  path  to  the  villa 
door.  Here  again  he  paused.  No  lights. 

"I  see.  Beggar's  gone  to  bed,  and  that 
rogue  Paolo  has  sneaked  off  to  a  cock-fight. 
Bob  ought  to  give  him  the  boot." 

He  climbed  the  stairs  silently  and  went 
to  his  room.  He  did  not  cross  the  center  of 
the  house  to  accomplish  this;  he  merely  fol- 
lowed the  veranda  corridor.  He  tossed  his 
cap  on  the  bureau,  yawned  luxuriously,  for 
he  was  tired,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 

46 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

the  bed  to  take  off  his  shoes;  but  he  imme- 
diately ceased  all  movement.  The  parra- 
keet  was  talking — vulgar  Hindustani  and 
equally  vulgar  English. 

"Mat,  you  lubber,  where's  my  tobacco? 
Chup!"  Which  is  Hindustani  for  "Stop 
your  noise!" 

Mathison  stared,  his  expression  one  of 
puzzlement.  Malachi  never  made  a  racket 
at  night  unless  he  was  profoundly  disturbed. 
What  ailed  the  bird?  And  where  the  devil 
was  Bob?  He  decided  to  investigate. 

"Mat!  .  .  .  Bahadur  Sahib!  .  .  .  Chota 
Malachi!  .  .  .  Bounder,  take  that  ace  out  of 
your  sleeve!  ...  To  hell  with  the  Ki!  .  .  . 
Mathison,  Hallowell,  and  Company,  and  be 
damned  to  you! .  .  .  Malachi!"  in  a  singular 
kind  of  wail. 

A  word  about  this  parrakeet.  He  was  well 
known  in  Manila,  at  least  among  the  younger 
officers  in  the  navy  and  the  army  stationed 
there.  Certain  parrots  and  parrakeets  talk 
fluently.  The  brain,  about  the  size  of  your 
finger-tip,  is  memory  in  the  concrete.  Men 
of  science  are  still  pulling  their  beards  over 
the  talking  parrot,  but  their  phrases  haven't 
fooled  anybody;  they  are  just  as  much  in 
the  dark  as  you  and  I.  The  birds  are  child- 

47 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

like  in  some  respects.  You  teach  the  feath- 
ered emeralds  this  or  that;  and  then,  some 
day,  in  trying  to  show  them  off,  they  con- 
found you  (and  regale  your  company)  by 
rattling  the  family  skeleton.  Like  children, 
they  store  away  a  good  many  things  not 
intended  for  their  ears. 

Malachi — I  believe  they  named  him  af- 
ter Mulvaney's  elephant — had  been  taught 
many  phrases  which  pass  in  wardrooms  but 
are  taboo  in  parlors.  Only,  Malachi  did 
not  know  it.  Why  men  teach  birds  to 
swear  I  don't  know,  unless  it  be  that  a 
ribald  oath  uttered  by  innocence  in  the  ab- 
solute is  a  man's  idea  of  humor.  Malachi 's 
masters  had  taught  him  to  memorize  the 
names  of  a  few  cronies  who  occasionally 
dropped  in  for  poker  or  bridge:  and  there 
was  always  a  hilarious  uproar  when  the  bird 
gravely  and  unexpectedly  demanded  that  So- 
and-so  drop  the  ace  he  was  hiding  in  his  sleeve. 

But  he  had  the  habit  of  all  talking  parrots, 
big  or  little,  of  shutting  up  shop  for  hours 
at  a  stretch  and  not  even  a  plantain  or  a 
plump  mangosteen  would  tempt  him  to 
break  his  silence.  A  truculent  little  green 
bird,  no  bigger  than  a  robin,  but  with  the 
spirit  ot  a  disgruntled  Bayard. 

48 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

There  were  no  doors  up-stairs  except  to 
the  cement  shower.  All  the  other  doorways 
were  hung  with  bead-and-bamboo  curtains. 
Mathison  parted  the  one  which  fell  between 
the  corridor  and  the  dining-room.  It  tinkled 
mysteriously  as  it  dropped  behind  him. 
Where  was  Bob?  He  listened.  He  could 
hear  the  parrakeet  moving  about  in  his  cage. 
When  agitated,  Malachi  had  a  way  of  pull- 
ing himself  up  to  the  swing  and  solemnly 
clambering  down  to  the  perch,  repeating 
the  maneuver  over  and  over. 

Mathison's  glance  trailed  to  the  curtain 
between  the  dining-room  and  the  living- 
room.  A  broad  band  of  moonshine  entered 
through  one  of  the  windows,  broke  against 
objects,  splashed  the  lower  fringe  of  the 
curtain,  and  ended  in  a  magic  pool  on  the 
grass  matting. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  every  nerve  and 
muscle  in  his  body  winced  and  pressed  back. 
It  was  almost  like  a  physical  blow.  It  took 
a  full  minute  for  the  vertigo  to  pass,  and 
when  it  passed  it  left  his  tongue  and  lips 
dry,  his  throat  hot. 

In  the  center  of  that  magic  pool  of  moon- 
shine was  a  hand,  sinisterly  inert. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MATHISON  fought  nausea,  terror; 
fought  the  paralysis  gathering  in  his 
legs,  and  pushed  through  the  curtain,  feel- 
ing along  the  wall  for  the  key-button  to  all 
the  lights.  He  blinked  a  moment  in  the 
glare  that  followed.  Then,  whichever  way 
he  looked — havoc! 

The  long  table,  the  stands  and  chairs 
overturned,  the  phonograph  -  record  files 
empty  and  flung  about,  the  glass  in  the 
bookcases  shattered  and  the  books  in  a  hel- 
ter-skelter, the  top  of  the  piano  swept  clear 
of  HallowelTs  antique  bronzes,  drawers  out, 
papers  and  blue-prints  scattered  every- 
where— and  the  quiet  form  of  his  friend  on 
the  floor! 

"Bob?"  cried  Mathison,  the  anguish  of 
that  moment  the  greatest  he  had  ever 
known.  "Bob?  .  .  .  God  in  heaven!" 

He  knelt.  Dead.  The  body  was  still 
warm.  Fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  ago 

50 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Hallo  well  had  been  alive.  .  .  .  The  length  of 
a  pair  of  coat-sleeves — an  infinitesimal  thing 
like  that!  Mathison  strangled  the  great, 
heaving  sob.  A  pair  of  coat-sleeves.  .  .  . 
The  irony  of  it!  But  for  a  trifle  like  that 
he  would  have  been  home  in  time,  and  this 
would  never  have  happened.  .  .  .  Bob! 

Slowly  Mathison  rose.  The  anguish,  the 
tenderness,  slowly  left  his  handsome  face. 
It  became  hard,  a  little  older,  and  there 
flashed  from  his  eyes  a  relentless  fury.  He 
neither  cursed  nor  gesticulated;  all  his  sub- 
sequent acts  were  quiet  ones.  He  prowled 
about  the  room,  his  scrutiny  that  of  a  man 
who  knew  how  to  hunt  for  little  things;  but 
he  found  nothing  which  would  indicate  the 
identity  of  the  assailants. 

A  foot  or  so  beyond  the  Bokhara  lay  a 
small  bronze  elephant,  one  of  HaUowelTs 
paper-weights.  Mathison  did  not  touch  it; 
he  would  never  be  able  to  touch  that  again. 

Bob  Hallowell,  matey,  straight  and  loyal 
and  brave! — done  to  death  in  this  fashion! 
Mathison  leaned  against  the  jamb  of  the 
door,  his  face  in  the  crook  of  his  elbow.  The 
one  human  being  he  had  loved  in  years — as 
men  sometimes  love  each  other!  And  while 
he  had  been  fussing  over  the  sleeves  of  a 

51 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

civilian's  coat,  Bob  had  sobbed  out  his  life 
on  the  floor  there !  It  was  not  the  end  itself, 
it  was  the  manner  of  the  end  that  was  so 
horrible.  Bob,  who  had  always  prayed  that 
he  might  die  at  sea! 

Mathison  flung  his  arm  from  his  eyes. 
The  woman  in  the  white  pith  helmet !  But 
immediately  he  dismissed  this  idea.  There 
had  been  no  woman  here.  Only  three  men 
or  more  could  have  beaten  down  Hallowell, 
who  was  tremendously  strong  and  active. 
God,  what  a  fight  it  had  been !  and  in  the  end 
— probably  as  he  was  getting  the  best  of  it- 
some  one  had  struck  him  down  from  behind. 
And  he  had  crawled  toward  the  dining- 
room;  for  there  was  a  sinister  trail  across 
the  n^ass  matting.  Dying,  he  had  crawled 
toward  the  dining-room.  Why? 

In  God's  name  why  had  he  not  let  them 
search?  The  uselessness  of  it!  He  had 
thrown  away  his  life  to  justify  an  instinct — 
the  active  resentment  of  a  brave  man  against 
permitting  alien  hands  to  meddle  with  his 
belongings.  Bob  had  always  been  without 
guile,  moral  resiliency;  like  a  bulldog,  he 
had  never  retreated,  stepped  back. 

"Mat, you  lubber,  where's  my  tobacco? . . . 

Malachi !"     Once  more  that  singular  wail. 

M 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Mathison  shuddered.  It  was  horrible  to 
hear  the  bird  scream  these  familiar  words. 
All  at  once  he  was  struck  by  an  oddity. 
Malachi  had  never  wailed  his  name  like  that 
before;  whenever  he  uttered  it  he  did  so 
briskly  and  cockily.  The  sight  of  a  blue- 
print, however,  caused  Mathison's  thought 
to  switch  instantly  into  another  channel. 

No.  9!  Now  he  understood  why  Bob  had 
fought.  Swiftly  Mathison  sifted  the  prints 
— old  ones  Hallowell  had  probably  been 
mulling  over.  No.  9  was  not  among  them. 
Still,  to  make  sure,  he  opened  the  wall  safe 
behind  the  piano.  This  was  empty  except 
for  a  small  red  book  such  as  men  use  to 
carry  addresses  in.  He  restored  the  prints 
to  their  hiding-place,  but  he  retained  the 
book.  No.  9,  with  all  HallowelTs  new 
annotations  and  computations,  in  the  hands 
of  the  enemy!  What  if  they  had  no  key- 
print?  What  mattered  it  if  they  could  not 
apply  the  principle,  so  long  as  they  under- 
stood that  this  menace  existed,  of  what  it 
comprised? 

"Damn  them  all  into  the  blackest  depth 
of  hell — the  low,  murderous  sneaks!" 

Once  more  the  militant  sailor,  he  stepped 
to  the  telephone  which  was  attached  to  the 

53 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

wall  and  took  down  the  receiver.  He  stared 
blankly  into  the  black  cup  of  the  transmitter 
and  slowly  replaced  the  receiver  on  the 
hook.  Wires  cut,  outside  somewhere,  and 
all  official  Manila  to  be  notified  at  once  of 
the  double  catastrophe!  He  would  be 
obliged  at  once  to  run  down  to  the  govern- 
or's bungalow. 

A  sickening  weakness  swept  over  him 
again.  He  reached  blindly  around  for  a 
chair,  righted  it  and  sat  down,  with  his 
head  in  his  hands.  He  would  have  to  get  a 
good  grip  on  himself  before  starting  out. 
After  a  while  he  raised  his  head  and  kept 
his  gaze  upon  the  walls  of  the  room,  with 
strange  detachment  noted  many  of  the 
curiosities  which  sailors  pick  up  in  Oriental 
ports,  not  for  their  intrinsic  value,  but  for 
their  associations.  A  good  deal  of  it  was 
junk,  from  a  collector's  point  of  view;  but 
Mathison  knew  that  there  was  not  money 
enough  in  the  world  to  buy  a  single  blade, 
pistol,  bird  wing,  butterfly,  claw.  He  would 
keep  them  always. 

It  was  dreadful  to  sit  there,  blinking  and 
choking  and  trying  not  to  look.  It  was 
almost  as  if  the  body  cried  out:  "Look  at 
me!  Look  at  me!"  A  terribly  compelling 

54 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

attraction!  Damn  them!  They  had  ran- 
sacked the  room  while  Bob  lay  there  sob- 
bing out  his  life. 

Air!  The  room  was  stifling  him.  He 
staggered  out  to  the  east  veranda.  Here 
he  fell  to  pacing  and  gradually  his  strength 
returned. 

"Malachi!"  cried  the  parrakeet,  but 
briskly  now.  The  sound  of  one  of  his 
masters  moving  about  reassured  him;  for 
these  odd  little  ringnecks  recognize  their 
friends  even  as  dogs  recognize  theirs. 

But  the  living  master  no  longer  heeded. 
Up  and  down  the  veranda  Mathison  strode, 
his  step  now  springy  and  noiseless.  He  was 
in  full  command  of  his  faculties.  From 
time  to  time  he  made  gestures;  they  were 
catlike.  To  tear,  bruise,  rend!  A  cold 
berserker  rage  had  taken  possession  of  him, 
one  of  those  upheavals  of  hate  which,  in- 
stead of  blinding,  clarify,  the  fires  of  which 
burn  steadily  until  the  end  is  attained. 
Only  strong  natures  are  capable  of  sustain- 
ing it.  Mathison  saw  the  future  with  as- 
tonishing clearness.  An  eye  for  an  eye. 
a  tooth  for  a  tooth! 

"Mat,  you  lubber,  where's  my  tobacco?" 
called  Malachi. 

55 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

This  time  Mathison  heard  with  com- 
prehension. He  paused,  struck  by  a  sin- 
gularly bizarre  thought.  Malachi!  Sup- 
posing that  was  it?  Supposing  Hallowell 
had  called  out  to  Malachi  the  name  of  the 
man?  A  chance  shot  in  the  dark  that  the 
bird  might  remember  and  repeat  it? 

This  trend  of  cogitation  was  interrupted 
by  a  furious  ringing  of  the  gate  bell. 

The  visitor  proved  to  be  Morgan  of  the 
Intelligence.  He  was  out  of  breath  from 
running. 

"Anything  wrong  in  these  diggings?" 

"Hallowell  is  dead,"  said  Mathison, 
gravely. 

"The  devil!    Murdered?" 

"Yes." 

"I  knew  it!  I  felt  it  in  my  bones.  Al- 
ways something  on  this  order  when  she 
passes.  And  like  a  yokel,  I  let  her  slip 
through  my  fingers!  .  .  .  Hell!" 

"No  woman  did  this." 

"Actually,  no;  potentially,  yes." 

"How  did  you  learn  anything  was  wrong? 
The  telephone  wire  has  been  cut." 

"She  came  along  in  a  carriage.  Stopped 
just  as  I  was  about  to  enter  the  governor's 
bungalow.  Said  she'd  seen  men  fighting 

56 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

here — shadows  on  the  curtain.  And  I  let 
her  get  away!" 

"In  a  white  pith  helmet?"  asked  Mathi- 
son,  with  the  first  sign  of  eagerness  he  had 
shown. 

"Yes.  Been  hunting  all  over  town  for 
her.  You  saw  her,  then?" 

"  Just  as  I  left  the  trolley." 

"Get  a  good  look?" 

"No.  Light  clothes  and  pith  helmet 
gave  me  the  impression  that  she  might  be 
young." 

"Young,"  mused  the  Intelligence  man, 
ironically.  "Well,  yes;  young  and  beauti- 
ful and  the  innocent  expression  of  a  child, 
with  the  heart  of  a  hell-cat.  I  pick  up 
lots  of  odds  and  ends  in  my  business,  unoffi- 
cial stuff.  This  female  once  tried  to  wreck 
Hallowell;  and  she  never  forgave  him  for 
having  a  spine." 

"She?" 

"Yes.  Ever  heard  of  a  woman  called 
The  YeUow  Typhoon?" 

"No,"  said  Mathison,  after  a  moment. 

"Well,  perhaps  a  man  like  you  wouldn't. 
But  ask  the  gay  lads  from  Yokohama  to 
Shanghai,  and  they'll  tell  you  Typhoon  is  a 
happy  choice.  .  .  .  God's  name,  look  at  this 

5  57 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

room!  What  a  fight!  .  .  .  And  I  stood 
yawping  while  she  ran  away  again!  Well, 
she  sha'n't  get  outside  the  Bay.  You  may 
lay  to  that.  Now  then,  anything  missing?" 

"A  blue-print,  relative  to  the  U-boat 
business." 

"But  I  thought  that  completed  and  out 
of  the  way!" 

"It  is;  but  Bob  had  some  ends  to  tighten 
up.  .  .  .  My  God,  Morgan,  they  struck  him 
from  behind!  He  was  beating  them  off, 
and  they  struck  him  from  behind!" 

"Buck  up,  Mathison!  You  mustn't  let 
this  get  you.  There's  a  whale  of  a  man's 
job  in  front  of  you.  Uncle  Sam's  depend- 
ing on  you  to  get  to  Washington.  Don't 
let  this  get  to  your  nerves  . . .  Old  Bob  Hallo- 
well!  I'll  round  up  the  suspects.  I'll 
crucify  them,  but  some  one  will  speak.  How 
valuable  was  the  print?" 

"It  will  give  them  an  idea  of  what  they'll 
be  up  against,  and  that  will  rob  the  thing 
of  fifty  per  cent,  of  its  value.  The  surprise 
will  be  gone." 

"I  see.  Bad  business.  They'll  try  to 
get  East;  Mexican  wireless.  Well,  it  will 
take  a  clever  man  or  woman  to  slip  through 
my  net;  and  I'll  settle  it  inside  an  hour. 

58 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

I  suppose  they  came  by  the  river.  We'll 
take  a  look-see  there  later.  Remember 
this  is  ordinary  burglary  with  murder.  It 
won't  do  to  let  the  public  know  that  any- 
thing serious  has  happened  to  our  war 
plans." 

"My  friend!  .  .  .  And  he  was  so  happy  to 
have  done  something  for  his  country!" 

"But  keep  hold  of  yourself.  Don't  let 
this  break  you  down.  It's  up  to  you  to 
make  Hallowell's  plans  good.  Keep  that  in 
your  head." 

"The  YeUow  Typhoon/ 

"  That's  the  name.  I'll  describe  her  later. 
Where's  your  servant?" 

"Out.  .  .  .  An  eye  for  an  eye!" 

"That's  the  way  to  talk!"  said  Morgan, 
patting  Mathison  on  the  shoulder.  "And 
nothing  will  hurt  the  Hun  so  much  as  your 
safe  arrival  in  Washington.  .  .  .  Poor  devil!" 
he  added,  under  his  breath. 


CHAPTER  V 

MATHISON,  his  pipe  dead  in  his  teeth, 
leaned  against  the  starboard  rail  and 
stared  with  unseeing  eyes.  It  was  Sunday, 
the  first  day  out  of  Manila.  The  north- 
east trade  was  blowing  briskly  and  the  blue 
Pacific  flashed  and  tumbled. 

Loneliness.  Never  had  he  known  any- 
thing like  this  before.  A  sudden  inexplic- 
able craving  for  crowds,  talk,  laughter  .  .  . 
women!  With  Bob  at  his  elbow,  night 
after  night,  he  hadn't  been  conscious  of  a 
void  in  his  life.  Woman.  No  doubt  he 
was  a  madman,  a  kind  of  super-madman, 
to  have  held  out  as  long  as  he  had.  Nerves. 
It  was  quite  possible  that  the  craving  would 
subside  and  he  would  become  normal,  once 
his  raw  nerves  had  steadied  down. 

His  errand  was  in  jeopardy.  He  would 
soon  need  all  of  his  cunning,  all  his  strength, 
to  pull  through.  He  had  set  for  himself 
something  more  than  the  mere  role  of  a 

60 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

secret  messenger.  He  had  buckled  on  the 
sword  of  Nemesis.  An  eye  for  an  eye,  a 
tooth  for  a  tooth.  He  was  letting  his  grief 
dig  in  too  deeply.  He  must  find  some  di- 
version shortly  or  he  was  done  for. 

He  had  had  to  fight  Morgan  bitterly  to 
win  his  point.  Morgan  maintained  that 
the  arrival  of  the  blue-print  in  Washington 
would  be  vengeance  enough  for^any  reason- 
able man.  In  the  end,  however,  he  had 
surrendered,  reluctantly  agreed  not  to  dis- 
turb the  passengers  beyond  careful  scrutiny 
of  their  passports.  But  why  had  the  taci- 
turn Morgan  chuckled,  thwacked  him  jovi- 
ally on  the  shoulder,  and  continued  chuck- 
ling as  he  went  down  the  gang-plank  just 
before  it  was  hauled  aboard?  Mathison 
was  still  mystified  over  this  peculiar  con- 
duct. 

Anyhow,  one  thing  was  off  his  mind. 
That  long,  thick  manila  envelope  was  in 
the  purser's  safe.  It  did  not  matter  that 
the  purser  might  still  be  cudgeling  his 
brains  as  to  the  why  and  wherefore  of  the  re- 
markable decorations  on  the  face  of  that 
envelope  for  which  the  owner  had  not  re- 
quired a  receipt  of  deposit. 

There  were  twenty-one  first-class  passen- 

61 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

gers  and  eighty  steerage.  Mathison  had 
applied  himself  intensively  to  the  memori- 
zation of  the  twelve  descriptions  in  that 
little  red  book  of  HallowelTs.  None  of  the 
first-class  passengers  tallied.  It  was  con- 
ceivable that  his  enemies  would  keep  under 
cover  until  they  were  ready  to  strike;  and 
nowhere  could  they  keep  hidden  so  well  as 
in  the  steerage,  among  the  Chinese,  Japan- 
ese, Filipinos,  and  Russians. 

They  had  found  Paolo  in  the  Pasig  River, 
a  hundred  gold  in  his  pocket,  conclusive 
evidence  of  two  things — that  the  servant  had 
betrayed  his  master  and  had  known  too 
much  for  the  safety  of  the  men  who  had 
bribed  him. 

Mathison  knocked  the  dottle  from  his 
pipe,  turned  toward  the  smoking-room, 
when  he  saw  a  book  coming  along  the  deck, 
flopping  and  bumping  like  a  gull  with  a 
broken  wing.  He  recovered  it.  Probably 
it  belonged  to  some  passenger  aft  the  smoke- 
room.  The  Life  of  the  Bee:  Maeterlinck. 
There  was  nothing  on  the  fly-leaf  to  indi- 
cate the  ownership,  however.  He  tucked 
it  under  his  arm  and  walked  aft. 

In  a  steamer-chair  between  the  port  and 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

starboard  projections  of  the  deck-house 
was  a  woman.  He  recognized  her  as  the  old 
lady  who  occupied  the  cabin  opposite  to  his 
on  the  main  deck.  A  gray  cashmere  shawl 
was  wrapped  about  her  head  and  shoulders. 
The  rest  of  her  body  was  snug  in  the  folds 
of  a  plaid  rug.  A  wisp  of  gray  hair,  the 
sport  of  the  wind,  was  fluttering,  now  across 
her  forehead,  now  above  the  edge  of  the 
shawl.  She  wore  a  pair  of  mandarin  spec- 
tacles with  amber  lenses.  Mathison  could 
not  tell  whether  she  was  asleep  or  awake. 
Nevertheless  he  approached.  The  craving 
for  companionship  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  began,  "but  per- 
haps this  book  is  yours.  It  came  galloping 
around  to  starboard  from  this  direction." 

"Thank  you.  I  saw  it  start  on  its  jour- 
ney, but  I  was  too  lazy  to  go  after  it."  She 
held  out  her  hand — concealed  in  a  gray 
cotton  glove — and  he  laid  the  book  on  it. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  then,  but  it  did 
later,  that  the  voice  was  singularly  rich 
and  full  for  one  who  appeared  to  be  well 
along  in  the  'sixties.  But  he  was  not  un- 
aware of  the  fact  that  breeding  and  educa- 
tion may  preserve  the  tonal  quality  of  a 
voice  through  life. 

63 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"You  ought  to  have  a  chair  in  a  more 
comfortable  place,"  he  suggested;  "out 
where  the  sun  is." 

"That's  just  my  difficulty.  The  sun 
bothers  my  eyes,  and  I'm  obliged  to  find 
nooks  where  it  cannot  reach  me.  We  old 
folks  have  to  be  careful.  Won't  you  sit 
down?" 

He  opened  a  chair  and  sat  on  the  foot- 
rest,  conscious  of  a  vague  exhilaration;  it 
was  the  human  look  of  her  and  the  human 
sound  of  her  voice. 

"My  name  is  Mathison." 

"And  mine  is  Chester — Mrs.  Hattie  M. 
Chester.  My  cabin  is  opposite  yours.  If 
a  submarine  should  pop  up,  you'll  promise 
to  come  for  me?" 

"  I  promise.  But  there  won't  be  any  subs 
over  here  except  in  dreams." 

"Something  to  scare  naughty  children 
with.  I  see." 

The  hint  of  raillery  convinced  Mathison 
that  there  was  a  vigorous,  fearless  person- 
ality under  the  shawl  and  the  rug.  What 
a  curious  spot  to  select!  Swinging  gray 
shadows  that  passed  and  repassed,  baffling 
scrutiny  in  a  most  amazing  manner. 

The  conversation  turned  upon  the  war, 

64 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

and  here  again  she  surprised  him  by  her 
clear  understanding  of  what  was  happening 
to  the  world. 

"  You've  a  son  over  in  France?"  he  vent- 
ured. 

"No,  unfortunately.  But  if  I  had  a 
thousand  sons,  I'd  disown  them  one  and  all 
if  they  weren't  over  there.  Once  upon  a 
time  white  men  worshiped  many  gods. 
To-day  where  are  they?  To-morrow  we 
shall  laugh  when  one  speaks  of  kings.  The 
Teuton  idea  did  not  invade  Belgium  so 
much  as  it  dug  its  own  grave.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  I 
were  a  man!" 

Mathison  smiled — something  he  hadn't 
expected  ever  to  do  again!  He  asked  her 
what  she  was  doing  alone  in  this  part  of  the 
world.  She  had  had  a  nervous  breakdown 
in  the  spring,  and  her  doctor  had  advised 
her  to  take  a  long  sea  voyage. 

"And  where  else  could  I  take  a  sea 
voyage?  I  always  wanted  to  see  India, 
China,  Japan.  I  suppose  you  are  going 
back  to  enlist?" 

"No,  I  am  going  home  to  fight.  I  am 
already  in  the  service." 

"What  arm?" 

"The  navy.    I  have  been  transferred  to 

65 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

the  Atlantic/'  he  admitted,  frankty.  "I'm 
to  command  a  destroyer  in  British  waters." 

"Splendid!  And  you  are  traveling  in 
mufti?" 

"A  special  dispensation."  He  sought  a 
safer  channel.  "You  are  rather  brave, 
to  tour  this  part  of  the  world  these  days." 

"Gray  hairs  go  safely  anywhere.  Besides, 
I've  a  French  maid  who  is  something  of  a 
grenadier.  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything  .  .  . 
except  ghosts!" 

This  time  Mathison  laughed.  He  was 
positively  enjoying  himself.  Then  he  recol- 
lected that  he  hadn't  fed  Malachi.  He  rose. 

"I've  a  little  parrakeet  in  the  cabin,  and 
I've  forgotten  to  feed  him." 

"Does  he  talk?" 

"In  three  languages — Hindustani,  Span- 
ish, and  Yankee." 

"Bring  him  up.  One  like  those  I  saw 
in  Agra,  flying  about  in  the  ruined  fort?" 

"Yes;  green,  with  a  lemon  collar.  I'll 
bring  him  up  this  afternoon  at  tea." 

"To-morrow  morning.  The  sun  is  in 
this  corner  in  the  afternoon." 

"You  ought  to  walk." 

"I  shall  ...  at  night." 

"I'll  bring  the  bird  up  to-morrow,  then." 

66 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"And  thanks  for  returning  the  book." 
This  was  the  beginning  of  what  may  be 
written  down  as  one  of  the  most  amazing 
situations  ever  devised  by  Fate.  The  wom- 
an behind  those  amber  spectacles  was 
young,  and  it  was  the  youth  of  her  that 
drew  Mathison,  though  he  was  utterly  un- 
conscious of  this  fact — drew  him  morning 
after  morning  as  the  magnetic  pole  draws 
the  needle  of  the  compass. 

By  the  time  the  ship  reached  Honolulu 
and  went  on  his  depression  was  a  thing  of 
memory;  his  nerves  became  normal;  he  was 
more  alive  than  he  had  been  in  years.  With 
all  the  cunning  of  her  superb  art  she  made 
her  lure  one  of  motherhood,  so  irresistible 
that  he  no  longer  bothered  his  head  over 
her  avoidance  of  sunlight  or  the  fact  that  if 
he  saw  her  at  night  it  was  by  the  port  rail, 
her  back  to  the  moonshine.  There  was  one 
clear  thought  regarding  her:  what  a  com- 
rade she  must  have  been  to  the  man  she 
once  called  husband!  Whimsical,  deeply 
learned,  sound  in  philosophy,  humorous, 
and  unafraid:  she  made  him  think  of  his 
mother;  and  all  the  tenderness  he  had  bot- 
tled up  in  his  lonely  heart  these  fourteen 
years  went  out  to  her.  Lightly  he  fell  into 

67 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

the  habit  of  calling  her  Mother,  and  in  her 
turn  she  called  him  Boy. 

For  all  the  pleasure  and  satisfaction  he 
found  in  this  companionship,  there  was  a 
line  and  he  never  crossed  it.  Of  his  own 
affairs  he  was  remarkably  reserved.  Sev- 
eral times — merely  as  a  test — she  laid  traps 
for  him,  but  each  time  he  evaded  them. 
Morgan — to  whom  she  had  gone  sensibly 
with  a  frank  confession — had  summed  up 
this  odd  handsome  young  man:  "He  is 
likely  to  fool  you.  Under  that  amiable 
exterior  there  is  a  lot  of  blood  and  iron 
stuff.  Always  keep  that  in  mind.  Just 
now  he  is  in  a  bad  shape.  Get  him  out  of 
it.  He's  a  bit  of  a  mollycoddle  where 
women  are  concerned,  but  among  men  he 


is  an  ace." 


Had  Mathison  been  of  her  world — a  world 
to  which  she  was  returning  gladly,  though 
she  had  left  it  indifferently  enough — he 
would  soon  have  seen  through  her  art,  clever 
and  vigilant  as  it  was.  She  could  not  dis- 
guise the  slender  youthfulness  of  her  foot. 
No  hand  sixty-odd  years  old  could  be  so 
firmly  fleshed.  The  gray  glove  hid  nothing. 
But  his  guilelessness  served  to  carry  her 
over  a  rather  shaky  bridge. 

68 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

On  the  third  night  out  of  Honolulu — it 
was  near  eleven — Mathison  stood  in  the 
little  shelter  between  one  of  the  life-boats 
and  the  rail,  whence  he  could  look  down  into 
the  waist,  at  the  recumbent  forms  of  the 
steerage  passengers  who  were  sleeping  on 
deck.  Night  after  night  he  had  watched 
from_this  lookout;  but  moonlight  and  star- 
light had  a  way  of  dissolving  and  blotting 
out  salients. 

To-night,  however,  his  persistence  was 
rewarded.  From  the  black  rectangle  of  the 
companion  door  a  Chinese  woman,  appar- 
ently of  high  caste,  stepped  forth.  She 
stood  poised  for  a  moment,  then  trotted 
across  to  starboard  and  laid  her  arms  on 
the  broad  teak  rail.  She  wore  a  radiant 
jacket,  full  of  gold  thread  which  caught 
the  moonshine  and  threw  it  back — a  spider- 
web  hung  with  dew.  She  was  smoking  a 
cigarette. 

He  knew  China;  and  suddenly  he  sensed 
something  wrong,  and  discovered  the  flaw. 
No  Chinese  woman,  high  or  low,  ever  wore 
such  a  thing  on  her  head.  Mathison 
couldn't  have  named  it;  but  a  white  woman 
would  have  had  no  difficulty.  It  was  a 
dainty  boudoir  cap. 


One  of  the  recumbent  forms  on  the  deck 
rose  slowly.  A  big  man,  with  blouse,  boots, 
and  cap  of  the  Russian  soldier;  the  peak  of 
the  cap  was  drawn  well  down.  He  lounged 
over  to  the  Chinese  woman,  and  the  two 
began  to  talk.  Presently  Mathison  heard 
the  woman  laugh.  It  was  unmistakably 
Occidental  laughter. 

So!  For  a  long  time  Mathison  stared, 
but  he  was  too  far  away  to  gather  an  im- 
pression such  as  might  count  in  the  future. 
Sooner  or  later  he  would  see  the  face  of 
this  Chinese  woman  who  laughed — white. 
He  would  never  forget  Morgan's  descrip- 
tion of  the  woman  called  The  Yellow  Ty- 
phoon .  .  .  the  woman  who  had  tried  to 
break  Bob  Hallowell  and  might  have  been 
one  of  the  contributing  causes  of  his  death. 
Old  Bob!  An  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for 
a  tooth !  Let  them  begin  the  play.  He  was 
ready. 

He  had  reasoned,  and  with  sound  logic, 
that  his  enemies  might  not  strike  at  all  while 
crossing,  to  lull  him  into  a  false  sense  of 
security,  so  that  once  they  stepped  ashore 
they  might  find  he  had  grown  careless,  over- 
confident. One  thing,  they  would  never  be 
able  to  get  into  his  cabin  when  he  was  out 

70 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

of  it.  The  night  and  day  stewards — de- 
pendable Japs — had  been  liberally  subsi- 
dized. One  or  the  other  was  invariably  on 
guard  up  to  the  hour  Mathison  turned  in 
for  the  night.  With  the  Manila  envelope 
in  the  purser's  safe,  the  human  wall  around 
his  cabin,  an  attack  would  have  small  chance 
of  success.  No  doubt  they  were  already 
aware  of  his  precautions. 

On  the  night  before  making  San  Fran- 
cisco, however,  he  was  given  an  insight  as 
to  the  patience  and  Machiavellian  range  of 
the  Teuton  forces  opposing  him.  It  was 
twelve  when  he  turned  in — an  hour  later 
than  usual.  As  he  came  abreast  his  cabin 
companionway,  he  stopped,  rocked  to  the 
bottom  of  his  soul.  The  Japanese  steward 
was  plunging  toward  him  at  top  speed. 
Mathison  spread  out  his  arms,  but  the  little 
brown  man  dipped,  eluded  him,  and  flashed 
up  the  main  companion. 

Against  the  opposite  side  of  the  cabin 
companionway  stood  the  gray  lady  .  .  . 
Malachi's  cage  hugged  tightly  to  her  bosom! 


CHAPTER  VI 

WITH  the  blood  pounding  in  his  throat, 
Mathison  rushed  to  her  side.  He  saw 
that  the  lights  were  on  in  his  cabin. 

"Just  a  moment  .  .  .  until  I  get  my 
breath!" 

"The  steward  .  .  .  ?" 

"No,  no!  Ran  out  to  identify  the  man, 
if  possible.  I'm  afraid  there's  something 
deadly  in  your  room." 

"But  Malachi!"  The  bird  was  huddled 
on  the  bottom  of  his  cage,  a  bad  sign. 

Mathison  dashed  into  the  cabin,  inhaled 
sharply,  and  his  inhalation  thrilled  him.  An 
unknown  but  pleasant  odor  tingled  his 
nostrils.  His  glance  roved  quickly.  On 
the  floor,  under  the  port,  was  a  brown  box, 
perforated.  He  seized  it  and  tossed  it 
through  the  port-hole,  beyond  the  rail,  into 
the  sea.  Then  he  stepped  out  into  the 
companion. 

"Come! . . .  Outside,  where  the  air  moves. 

72 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

.  .  .  Malachi!"  Mathison's  voice  broke. 
"Hurry!" 

She  followed  him,  still  clutching  the  cage 
and  wondering  if  he  would  remark  her  eyes, 
now  without  the  baffling  spectacles.  He 
led  her  to  a  spot  where  the  rail  opened, 
took  the  cage  from  her,  and  set  it  on  the 
deck.  He  sat  down  beside  it,  and  she 
imitated  him. 

"The  poor  little  bird!"  she  murmured. 
Was  the  wig  on  straight?  She  dared  not 
put  up  her  hand  to  feel. 

Mathison  stared  at  Malachi.  He  should 
have  taken  a  cabin  in  the  lower  deck.  Still, 
he  couldn't  understand  how  the  port  had 
been  opened.  He  had  kept  it  locked,  de- 
spite the  stuffiness.  No  matter.  Inspec- 
tion would  solve  that.  Thought  he  had 
turned  in.  He  had,  until  to-night,  gone  to 
the  cabin  regularly  at  eleven;  and  they  had 
planned  the  stroke  accordingly.  Their  only 
hope  of  entering  the  cabin  was  after  mid- 
night, when  he  was  in  it.  He  had  liberally 
subsidized  the  two  Jap  stewards.  Day  and 
night  the  companion  was  guarded.  But 
after  midnight  the  companion  was  empty. 

Clever.  To  stupefy  him,  to  send  him  into 
a  deep,  artificial  slumber,  force  his  door  and 

6  73 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

ransack  his  belongings  leisurely.  He  was  con- 
fident the  fume  was  innocuous  beyond  the 
sleep-producing  effect.  But  Malachi  .  .  . 
it  would  have  been  the  death  of  Malachi. 

He  still  clung  to  that  idea.  He  had  read 
of  such  things,  but  until  now  had  never  con- 
sidered them  in  the  light  of  facts.  If 
Hallowell  had  called  to  Malachi,  the  little 
bird  knew.  But  would  he  ever  speak? 
Had  he  understood  that  one  of  his  masters 
had  been  trying  to  tell  him  something? 

Every  morning  for  an  hour  Mathison 
had  worked  patiently  to  get  the  bird  to 
speak;  but,  aside  from  grumbling  hi  parra- 
keetese,  Malachi  refused  to  utter  a  word. 
All  this  confusion  annoyed  him.  There  was 
a  strange  swing  to  the  world,  now  up,  now 
down,  now  from  side  to  side.  It  kept  his 
temper,  normally  irascible,  in  a  state  of 
feverish  vindictiveness.  True,  he  would 
climb  up  Mathison's  arm,  nip  his  master's 
ear  gently — the  only  way  he  had  of  express- 
ing affection;  but  he  was  generally  unhappy. 

"I  don't  know  why,"  said  the  gray  lady, 
when  Mathison's  silence  began  to  get  upon 
her  nerves,  "but  my  first  thought  was  of 
Malachi.  I  ...  you  have  told  me  so  often 
how  much  you  loved  him." 

74 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"And  you  have  probably  saved  him.  In 
ten  minutes  he  would  have  been  dead." 

Malachi  turned  slowly  head-on  to  the 
wind.  The  beak  was  closed.  This  was  a 
good  sign. 

"Malachi,  old  boy?" 

The  woman  stifled  the  sob  that  rose  in 
her  throat.  A  strong,  vigorous  man,  young, 
handsome  beyond  ordinary,  all  alone  but 
for  the  little  green  bird.  Why?  What  was 
the  meaning  of  this  self-imposed  isolation? 
"A  mollycoddle  so  far  as  women  were  con- 
cerned." Why,  there  was  nothing  about 
him  to  suggest  bashfulness.  She  had  not 
studied  him  through  all  these  hours  without 
learning  that  fundamentally  he  was  light- 
hearted  in  temperament  and  tremendously 
interested  in  living.  No  woman  in  the 
background,  for  he  was  not  cynical.  And 
here  he  was,  his  sole  companion  a  Hindu- 
stani parrakeet. 

Mathison  thrust  a  finger  into  the  cage, 
and  Malachi  struck  at  it  drunkenly. 

"He'll  come  around.  I  can't  thank  you; 
I  haven't  the  words.  But  it  would  have 
broken  my  heart  if  anything  had  happened 
to  him.  Won't  you  please  tell  me  exactly 
what  happened?" 

75 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

She  did  not  begin  at  once.  She  had  to 
weigh  her  words.  She  must  never  let  him 
suspect  that,  night  after  night,  she  never 
went  to  bed  until  she  heard  him  enter  his 
cabin.  What  a  coil !  He  would  never  know 
who  she  was!  To-morrow,  after  land- 
ing, the  gray  lady  would  vanish  forever. 
Only  a  few  months  gone  her  existence  had 
been  joyous,  if  strenuous;  and  now  there 
would  be  always  at  her  side  a  shadow  and  a 
fear.  She  had  stepped  upon  a  whirligig, 
and  perspectives  were  no  longer  clear.  The 
horizon  of  the  future  was  dark  with  com- 
plications. She  dreaded  New  York,  and 
she  was  honor-bound  to  return.  Berta  in 
New  York?  The  kite  in  the  dove-cote? 
Escapades  which  would  become  the  talk 
of  the  town  and  which  the  public  would 
naturally  lay  at  her  door.  She  shivered. 

Yes,  to-morrow  she  must  vanish  com- 
pletely, even  though  she  would  always  be 
close  at  hand,  all  the  way  across  the  conti- 
nent. The  Yellow  Typhoon!  Her  heart 
swelled  in  bitterness.  He  would  never 
know.  Filled  with  the  grim  business  of 
war,  he  would  be  rushing  in  and  about 
Washington  or  the  great  naval  yards.  He 
would  spend  his  leave  in  activities  which 

76 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

concerned  his  future.  There  would  be  only 
one  chance  in  a  thousand  of  his  stumbling 
upon  the  truth  and  finding  her.  Ah,  but 
if  he  should! 

"I  could  not  sleep,"  she  began.  "I  left 
my  door  open  and  knelt  on  the  lounge  to 
watch  the  sea.  I  don't  know  how  long  I 
remained  in  that  position.  Suddenly  I 
observed  a  man  stealing  along  the  rail.  His 
face  was  in  a  complete  shadow.  I  watched 
him.  He  stopped  in  front  of  your  port- 
hole, then  approached  it.  This  looked  so 
suspicious  that  I  stepped  into  the  compan- 
ion. Your  door  was  open  the  width  of  the 
hook,  and  I  could  see  the  port-hole  clearly. 
I  saw  the  glass  swing  inward.  There  was 
plenty  of  moonshine.  I  saw  an  arm  reach 
into  the  port-hole  and  something  was 
dangling  at  the  end  of  the  shadowy  hand. 
Quickly  I  threw  up  the  hook,  opened  your 
door,  and  turned  on  the  lights.  Saki,  the 
steward,  came  running  up.  In  a  word  I 
told  him  what  had  happened.  There  was  a 
peculiar  odor  in  the  air.  I  caught  up  the  cage 
and  rushed  out . . .  just  as  you  appeared." 

"All  my  life  I  shall  be  grateful.  I  can't 
explain  anything  to  you,  much  as  I'd  like 
to.  You  will  never  realize  what  your  com- 

77 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

panionship  has  done  to  buck  me  up.  I 
came  aboard  very  nearly  a  broken  man." 

"Boy,  you  don't  have  to  confide."  She 
laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"I'm  an  odd  duffer.  They  used  to  call 
me  mollycoddle,  back  at  Annapolis,  until  I 
had  whipped  half  the  class.  And  all  the 
while  I've  been  just  as  normal  as  the  aver- 
age man."  There  was  a  pause.  "You 
know  Kipling?" 

"His  books?    Yes." 

"Then  you  remember  that  yarn  called 
'Love  o'  Women'?  My  father  ...  he  was 
like  that.  Handsome  and  lovable  and  weak 
in  fiber.  He  was  also  in  the  navy.  For  a 
hundred  years  we  Mathisons  have  been  in 
the  army  or  navy.  We  had  money.  We 
were  soldiers  and  sailors  from  choice.  My 
father  died  when  I  was  sixteen.  He  died 
terribly.  He  broke  my  mother's  heart. 
But  I  knew  nothing  of  that  until  after  his 
burial.  Then  one  day  she  called  me  to 
her.  ...  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  and 
heard  her.  Tender  and  plucky  and  beauti- 
ful ...  and  unafraid.  She  talked  to  me  as 
fathers  always  should  talk  to  their  sons. 
Frankly  and  truthfully  she  drew  life.  I 
had  the  example  of  my  father.  She  told 

78 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

me  that  somewhere  in  the  world  there  was 
a  mate  for  me.  Should  I  take  her  a  clean 
heart  or  a  muddy  one?  Should  I  know  real 
happiness  or  should  I  choose  a  bed  like  my 
father's?  I  listened,  dulled  and  appalled. 
Then  she  asked  me  to  promise  to  go  clean. 
There's  a  point.  We  Mathisons  always 
keep  our  promises.  It  is  the  motto  on  the 
shield.  But  we  never  give  our  promises 
hastily.  My  mother  knew  that.  My  fa- 
ther had  never  made  her  any  promises  of 
reformation.  He  knew  he  would  have 
kept  them.  She  told  me  to  fight  it  out, 
then  come  and  tell  her  what  I  had  chosen 
to  do  with  my  soul  and  body." 

"And  you  promised!" 

"Yes.  And  I've  kept  it.  She  died  shortly 
after.  The  wild  streak  was  in  my  blood. 
I've  had  to  fight.  I  have  sown  my  wild 
oats  in  work  and  adventure.  This  took 
away  a  good  deal  of  the  gregarious  in- 
stinct. I  have  fought  wild  beasts  on  foot; 
I  have  explored  poisonous  swamps;  I  have 
climbed  precipices — and  always  the  thing 
tugged  at  me." 

"And  the  dream-woman?" 

"I'm  afraid  she's  been  a  little  too  long 
in  coming." 

79 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"But  how  would  you  know?" 

"I'd  know.  I  can't  tell  you  how  or  why. 
Only,  I  shall  know.  Something  will  tell 
me.  I  wonder,  am  I  a  mollycoddle?" 

"Boy,"  she  said,  pressing  his  arm,  for 
she  hadn't  taken  her  hand  away,  "I  did 
not  believe  that  there  was  such  a  man  in 
all  this  world.  Why,  you  have  won  your 
Marne!  .  .  .  And  she  will  come,  this  mate, 
for  God  is  just.  If  I  had  a  son,  I'd  want 
him  like  you.  All  mothers  long  for  sons 
like  you.  .  .  .  She  will  come!" 

"She'll  have  to  hurry,"  he  replied,  lightly. 
"I'm  heading  into  the  war  zone.  I  may 
never  come  back."  He  laid  his  free  hand 
on  hers.  "I  wonder  if  I  can  make  you 
understand  what  your  kindness  has  done 
for  me?  When  I  came  on  board  I  was  all 
but  done  for.  I  had  just  lost  the  one  human 
being  I  loved.  May  I  come  and  see  you  in 
New  York?" 

"I  shall  be  waiting  for  you.  You  have 
my  address." 

Later,  in  her  cabin,  while  sleepy  Sarah 
brushed  and  aired  the  wavy  coils  of  hair 
which  had  been  confined  all  day  beneath 
the  hot  wig,  she  turned  with  shining  eyes — • 
eyes  like  purple  grapes  in  the  rain. 

80 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"Sarah,  am  I  beautiful?" 

"Ah,  madame,  all  the  world  ..." 

"  Bother  the  world.    What  do  you  think?" 

"I?    Madame  is  more  than  beautiful. 

She  is  famous.     She  is  good.     She  is  worthy 

of  a  good  man,  of  many  healthy  children." 
Her  mistress  laughed.     "Thanks,  Sarah. 

That  is  all  I  wished  to  know." 

"Will   madame    continue    wearing    this 

make-up?" 

"I  shall  change  it  for  another  in  the 

cab  that  takes  us  from  the  dock  to  the 

train  to-morrow." 

When  the  ship  lay  alongside  her  pier  the 
following  afternoon  Mathison  put  in  his 
buttonhole  the  bit  of  green  ribbon.  Then 
he  rang  for  the  steward,  assigned  the  cage 
and  one  of  the  two  kit-bags  to  his  care, 
took  the  other  himself,  and  went  up  on 
deck  to  bid  Mrs.  Chester  good-by. 

"Good-by,"  she  said  from  behind  a 
heavy  veil.  "You  will  not  forget  me?" 

"Never  in  this  world!  I  have  your  ad- 
dress. I'll  dig  up  New  York  from  one  end 
to  the  other  but  I'll  find  you,  little  mother!" 

"Take  care  of  yourself.  And  please 
come  and  find  me!"  But  she  went  down 

81 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

the  gang-plank  with  a  queer,  empty  feeling 
in  her  heart.  He  might  find  her,  but  the 
gray  lady  would  shortly  vanish  forever. 

Had  she  been  mothering  him?  Or  had 
sne  been  attracted  from  another  angle? 
She  had  never  met  a  man  like  this  before, 
worldly  in  his  understanding,  handsome, 
virile,  a  man's  man,  but  an  utter  child  in 
the  presence  of  a  woman.  Perhaps  the  at- 
traction was  its  novelty.  Hitherto  she 
had  looked  upon  men  cynically.  She  was 
like  one  who  had  been  chasing  a  mirage 
across  the  desert,  to  find  a  water-hole  un- 
expectedly. 

It  had  been  so  easy  to  deceive  him.  Her 
voice,  the  roundness  of  her  body,  the  firm- 
ness of  her  hand  and  foot,  these  hadn't 
told  him  anything.  How  many  times  had  she 
almost  reached  out  to  rumple  his  hair?  Why 
hadn't  she?  Why  did  she  want  to?  She 
carried  this  riddle  with  her  for  many  days. 

Mathison  walked  down  the  gang-plank 
into  the  vast  shed.  Almost  at  once  a  man 
approached  him  and  handed  him  an  en- 
velope. He  made  off  without  a  word. 
Mathison,  without  glancing  at  the  envelope, 
stuffed  it  hi  his  pocket  and  proceeded  toward 

82 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

the  customs  barrier.  He  passed  this  with 
little  or  no  delay,  got  into  a  taxicab  and  was 
driven  to  the  ferry.  Over  in  Oakland  he 
found  the  train  made  up,  so  he  went  into 
his  compartment  immediately.  He  put 
away  the  green  ribbon  and  rang  for  the 
porter. 

"Screens  in  the  window,"  he  said 

"Yes,  suh." 

"I  shall  ring  for  you  whenever  I  need 
you.  Knock  three  times  shortly  on  the 
door  when  you  answer." 

"Yes,  suh." 

"I  shall  have  my  meals  in  here.  Always 
bring  the  waiter  to  the  door  yourself." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  the  porter,  the  whites  of 
his  eyes  growing. 

"Follow  these  instructions  and  you  will 
be  ten  dollars  richer  when  we  draw  into 
Omaha.  That  will  be  all." 

Mathison  left  the  door  wide  open  until 
the  arrival  of  the  conductor,  when  he  pro- 
duced the  envelope  he  had  so  mysteriously 
received.  It  contained  his  tickets.  After 
surrendering  these,  he  closed  and  locked  the 
door  and  took  inventory.  Imitation  ma- 
hogany— steel.  Above  the  little  door  in  the 
lavatory  was  an  electric  fan.  He  discovered 

83 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

that  one  of  the  windows  went  up  easily. 
When  his  bunk  was  made  up  he  would  be 
able  to  reach  the  light  and  fan  buttons 
without  difficulty. 

"Well,  Malachi,  old  scout,  this  is  America. 
How  do  you  like  it?" 

Malachi  teetered  on  his  perch  grouchily. 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  that  you're 
Irish — a  Sinn-Feiner.  You  don't  like  any- 
body, anything,  or  anywhere.  Poor  little 
beggar!  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  chatter 
again.  I  suppose  I'd  better  break  the  news 
to  you.  When  we  get  to  New  York  I'm 
going  to  give  you  away.  Yes,  sir.  To  the 
dearest  old  lady  a  chap  ever  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet.  To  have  met  a  woman 
like  that . . .  when  she  was  young!  My  luck ! 
They  call  us  idiotic  Yankees,  these  Huns, 
Malachi ;  but  we're  going  to  fool  them. 
Ever  see  a  spider  weave  his  web — and  then 
wait  for  the  fly  to  walk  in?  Wait  and  see!" 

Mathison  turned  slowly  and  faced  the 
rear  partition.  He  stretched  out  his  arms 
and  curled  his  fingers  sinisterly,  his  jaws 
set,  a  savage  luster  in  his  eyes. 

"With  these  two  hands,  by  God!  ...  All 
right,  Bob.  Trust  me  to  see  it  through." 

But  how  was  he  going  to  secure  that  blue- 

84 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

print — No.  9?  He  possessed  the  power  to 
search  every  human  being  on  this  train.  That 
would,  if  used,  serve  to  recover  the  print; 
but  it  would  set  Messrs,  the  Flies  winging 
to  parts  unknown  the  moment  they  sus- 
pected what  was  on  foot.  The  long  arm  oi 
the  Secret  Service  at  his  beck  and  call,  and 
he  would  not  dare  to  use  it!  Beyond  iden- 
tifying himself  to  the  watching  agents  by 
the  display  of  the  green  ribbon,  he  would 
never  dare  call  for  help.  His  enemies  would 
be  in  this  train,  probably  in  this  very  car: 
they  would  be  on  the  same  trains  all  the 
way  to  New  York,  whither  he  must  draw 
them.  Once  there,  he  would  not  have  much 
difficulty  in  recovering  No.  9.  But  if  they 
mailed  it!  If  it  entered  their  calculations 
to  mail  it! 

How  many  against  him?  He  would  never 
know  until  the  end.  The  Yellow  Typhoon? 
Let  the  vipers  beware!  Morgan  had  de- 
scribed her  minutely,  but  Mathison  doubted 
he  would  recognize  her  unless  she  entered 
some  extraordinary  situation. 

To  live  in  this  infernal  bulkhead  for  days, 
eating,  sleeping,  reading — that  would  be 
the  supreme  test,  that  would  prove  whether 
the  metal  in  him  was  iron-casting  or  forged 

85 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

steel.  Never  to  question  the  porters,  to 
confuse  his  enemies  by  a  grim  silence,  to 
force  them  into  offensives  out  of  sheer 
curiosity. 

"We  idiotic  Yankees!" 

That  night  as  he  lay  in  his  berth — it  was 
after  one  o'clock — solving  mathematical 
problems  which  had  to  do  with  jumps  be- 
tween trains,  he  became  conscious  of  a 
pleasant  odor.  He  recognized  it.  Instantly 
he  sat  up  and  hauled  away  at  the  window. 
Next  he  brought  over  Malachi  and  lowered 
the  covering  of  the  cage.  The  cold  night 
air  came  in  at  the  rate  of  a  gale.  Then  he 
remembered  the  fan.  He  groped  for  the 
button,  and  the  fan  began  to  hum.  Still 
he  could  smell  the  fumes.  Suddenly  he 
laughed.  It  was  the  cold,  tranquil  laughter 
of  a  man  who  had  lived  among  men.  He 
pressed  the  porter's  bell.  If  there  was  any 
one  waiting  in  the  corridor,  he  would  have 
to  move  on.  But  if  the  porter  did  not 
arrive ! 

The  porter,  however,  came  almost  at 
once.  Mathison,  holding  his  automatic 
behind  his  back,  opened  the  door  full  wide. 

"Any  way  of  getting  a  cup  of  coffee?" 

"No,  suh." 

86 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Sorry  to  have  bothered  you,  then." 

All  Mathison  wanted  was  an  open  door 
for  a  minute  or  two — a  clearing  draught. 
When  he  shut  the  door  there  was  only  a 
vague  taint.  Clever  work.  Not  a  lethal 
fume;  neither  his  heart  nor  his  lungs  were 
troubled  in  the  least.  A  sleep  fume.  There 
had  been  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to 
curl  up  and  let  the  world  go  hang. 

Malachi's  feathers  were  ruffled,  but  he 
clung  to  his  perch,  his  eyes  beaming  with 
their  usual  malignancy. 

How  had  they  gotten  the  fumes  Into  the 
compartment?  Forward  there  was  no  dan- 
ger, as  he  was  occupying  No.  1.  He  went 
over  every  square  inch  of  the  base  of  the 
rear  partition.  In  the  corner  under  the 
berth — &  difficult  spot  to  get  to — he  found 
an  oily  thimbleful  of  steel  filings.  He 
drenched  a  towel  and  dammed  the  aperture. 
Compressed  air  had  forced  the  fumes  into 
the  compartment.  Evidently  they  were 
going  to  keep  him  awake  nights ! 

So  his  friends  were  next  door!  Some- 
thing to  find  that  out.  But  what  was  the 
idea?  They  could  not  force  that  door 
without  dynamite.  Had  they  speculated 
upon  his  running  out  into  the  corridor? 

87 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Or  was  this  the  beginning  of  a  series  of  night 
attacks  to  break  him  down  physically  and 
mentally?  ...  To  keep  him  awake  until  he 
threw  caution  to  the  winds!  There  vrere 
big  storms  forward;  there  would  be  delays. 
Very  well;  he  would  sleep  afternoons  and 
stand  watch  through  the  night.  A  man's 
job. 

The  next  offensive  came  while  they  were 
crossing  the  Rockies.  It  had  caliber.  It 
convinced  Mathison  that  he  was  dealing 
with  a  man  of  brains,  a  man  who  was  not 
untrained  in  psycho-analysis.  They  ran 
afoul  a  tremendous  storm  in  the  mountains 
and  became  stalled  for  several  hours  be- 
cause of  a  fallen  snow-shed.  It  was  near 
eleven  o'clock  when  the  porter  came  along 
and  announced  what  had  happened. 

Though  Mathison  was  sleeping  as  much 
as  he  could  through  the  day,  he  undressed 
at  night,  propped  himself  up  under  the 
reading  globe  and  studied  navigation  pecul- 
iar these  days  to  British  waters.  Round 
about  midnight  he  heard  a  pistol-shot, 
another,  then  a  fusillade  from  opposite 
directions.  He  jumped  out  of  his  berth 
and  got  into  some  of  his  clothes — and  sat 
down  suddenly,  grinning.  Had  he  been 

88 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

dressed  they  would  have  got  him!  What 
would  be  surer  to  call  forth  a  fighting-man 
than  the  sound  of  shots  in  the  night?  They 
were  going  to  keep  him  thinking  fast.  They 
wanted  him  out  in  the  open. 

Before  the  train  reached  Omaha — a  day 
and  a  half  late — Mathison  began  to  feel  the 
strain.  Sleep  in  the  afternoon  is  never 
energy-producing-  a  number  of  minutes 
pass  into  oblivion,  that  is  all;  body  and 
brain  stand  still;  they  do  not  recuperate. 
Mathison,  upon  coming  out  of  these  naps, 
felt  as  if  he  had  been  playing  cards  for 
hours.  He  had  to  apply  cold  water  to  shake 
off  the  lethargy.  _  He  was  full  of  confidence, 
however. 

There  wasn't  any  doubt  at  all  that  they 
were  after  his  nerves.  The  door-knob 
rattled  mysteriously  during  the  small  hours 
of  the  night.  Whenever  the  train  stopped 
there  was  clicking  on  the  window-pane. 
But  he  never  opened  the  door  nor  raised 
the  window-curtain.  The  vantage  was  still 
on  his  side  of  the  net.  While  he  knew  what 
they  were  attempting  to  do,  they  hadn't  the 
least  idea  where  their  endeavors  were  get- 
ting them. 

At  Omaha  passengers  for  Chicago  would 

7  89 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

be  transferred  to  another  train.  Mathison 
was  last  to  leave.  He  put  the  green  ribbon 
hi  his  buttonhole,  picked  up  the  kit-bag 
which  contained  the  manila  envelope,  and 
sauntered  forth.  The  freshness  of  the  win- 
ter air  and  the  joy  of  swinging  his  arms  and 
legs  freely! 

The  porter  preceded  him  with  the  bag 
and  Malachi.  He  did  not  hurry.  He  was 
among  a  dozen  or  so  moving  in  the  same 
direction.  As  he  reached  the  platform  of 
the  new  car  two  men  broke  away  from  the 
group  and  hurried  off  toward  the  gates. 
Negligible  and  unnoticed,  unless  you  knew 
what  it  signified.  On  the  lounge  in  his 
compartment — which  was  still  No.  1 — he 
discovered  some  novels  and  a  bundle  of  the 
latest  magazines.  A  present  from  the  Se- 
cret Service.  He  would  look  through  them 
all  with  particular  care.  There  might  be 
a  message. 

A  point  in  passing.  If  Mathison  was 
confusing  his  enemies  he  was  also  confusing 
the  various  chiefs  of  the  Secret  Service 
along  the  route.  Here,  the  latter  reasoned, 
was  a  man  who  temporarily  possessed  colos- 
sal power.  Orders  had  come  from  Washing- 
ton to  obey  him  absolutely.  He  could 

90 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

commandeer  a  car  for  himself,  a  diner,  put 
operatives  in  the  cars  fore  and  aft,  order 
the  arrests  of  suspects,  knock  railway  sched- 
ules galley-west;  and  to  date  he  had  issued 
but  two  orders — to  engage  No.  1  compart- 
ment on  all  trains  and  to  have  three  taxi- 
cabs  at  the  station  in  Chicago.  And  these 
orders  had  come  from  mid-Pacific  by  wire- 
less. On  the  other  hand,  they  appreciated 
the  fact  that  if  Mathison  could  make  it  on 
his  own,  so  much  the  better.  Still,  they 
were  puzzled. 

There  were  three  novels.  As  Mathison 
idly  riffled  the  pages  of  one  he  saw  a  word 
underscored.  He  followed  this  clue,  and 
at  length  came  upon  the  message:  "You 
understand  your  powers?  Car  straight  to 
Washington  if  you  order  it."  Mathison 
chuckled.  If  the  Secret  Service  was  baffled, 
what  was  going  on  in  the  minds  of  the  men 
following  him?  He  had  determined  from 
the  start  to  send  no  wires.  The  green 
ribbon  must  suffice.  Telegrams  passing  to 
and  fro  might  create  confusion,  alarm  the 
quarry. 

There  were  two  empty  compartments 
on  this  car — 4  and  5.  Mathison  had 
No.  1.  No.  2  was  occupied  by  a  man  with 

91 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

straw-colored  hair  and  a  ruddy  complexion 
and  a  woman  with  a  charming  mole  at  one 
corner  of  her  mouth.  In  No.  3  were  two 
men,  playing  canfield.  In  No.  6  there  were 
two  women. 

Both  women  had  entered  the  car  heavily 
veiled — the  woman  in  6  and  the  woman  in 
2.  Neither  removed  the  veil  until  the  con- 
ductor passed.  From  San  Francisco  to 
Omaha,  all  on  the  same  car;  and  they  would 
be  on  the  same  car  from  Omaha  to  Chicago. 
Mathison  nor  the  woman  in  2  had  stepped 
outside  their  compartments  until  this  trans- 
fer from  one  car  to  the  other.  But  the 
woman  in  6  walked  the  corridor  at  all  hours 
of  the  day  and  night,  her  face  hidden  behind 
a  thick  gray  veil.  Her  maid,  however, 
brought  all  the  meals  to  the  compartment. 

The  blond  man  stood  up  and  put  a  cigar 
between  his  teeth. 

"Well,  once  more  luck  is  with  us.  And 
yet  I  am  vaguely  puzzled." 

"Over  what?"  snapped  the  woman  with 
the  mole,  irritably. 

"It  is  almost  too  easy" — scowling. 

'The  stupid  Yankee  pigs!" 

"Not  this  one,  Berta.  We  haven't  got 
him  clear  in  the  open  yet." 

92 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Ah!  Then  you  are  beginning  to  doubt 
that  superior  efficiency  of  yours?  .  .  .  I'm 
tired.  To  keep  me  cooped  up  like  this!" 

"You  may  open  your  wings  as  wide  as 
you  please,  once  we  are  in  New  York." 

"But  if  he  goes  on  this  way?" 

"I  have  still  some  traps.  There  will  be 
a  little  journey  in  Chicago  between  one 
station  and  the  other.  Who  knows  what 
may  happen?" 

"But  why  coop  me  up?" 

"The  hour  may  come  when  I  shall  need 
you.  If  he  saw  you  it  would  not  be  possible. 
Did  Hallowell  have  a  photograph  of  you?" 

"In  his  watch-case.  .  But  he  destroyed 
it  the  night  he  left  me."  She  frowned. 

"Nevertheless,  he  must  never  see  you. 
On  board  the  ship  it  was  your  impatience 
that  caused  me  to  fail.  We  merely  put  him 
on  his  guard.  The  blue-prints  were  in  the 
purser's  safe,  and  his  signature  was  not  in 
the  receipt-book.  Have  patience.  No  man 
is  perfect.  Patience  often  overcomes  skill. 
Sooner  or  later  the  skilful  man  grows  care- 
less, or  he  forgets,  or  he  comes  to  believe 
he  is  a  godson  of  luck.  And  then,  there  is 
the  lack  of  sleep.  Somewhere  along  the 
route  I'll  find  a  weak  spot." 

93 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"I  hate  all  Yankees!" 

"So  do  I,  Berta.  I  hate  them  because 
some  of  them  are  not  boasters.  Have  pa- 
tience. A  small  city  east  of  Chicago,  a 
chief  of  police  who  likes  newspaper  noto- 
riety. A  couple  of  hours;  we  sha'n't  need 
any  more  than  that.  New  York!"  jovially. 

"Champagne  and  beefsteak!"  she  re- 
torted, contemptuously. 

"Well,  and  why  not?  Haven't  I  prom- 
ised you  ah1  the  dresses  you  can  pack  in  two 
trunks?  I  haven't  had  a  decent  meal  or 
a  good  cup  of  coffee  since  the  war  began." 

"New  York!  .  .  .  after  all  these  years!" 

"Bah!  Who  in  the  world  will  recognize 
you?  We  are  a  good  many  miles  away 
from  that  gambling-house  in  the  Honan 
Road.  You're  moody.  You've  missed  the 
parade  for  nearly  five  weeks.  You'd  be  all 
right  if  you  could  walk  through  the  cars  to 
the  diner  and  have  them  gape  in  wonder  at 
you.  Somewhere  between  Chicago  and 
Buffalo  we'll  use  that  crook  scheme.  Now 
I'm  going  in  next  door  for  a  few  rubbers  at 
bridge." 

She  did  not  reply.  She  turned  her  face 
toward  the  window  and  stared  out  into  the 
night.  New  York!  What  was  the  matter 

94 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

with  her  that  she  did  not  blaze  with  pleasure 
at  the  thought  of  New  York?  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, Broadway,  the  theaters,  the  brilliant 
restaurants,  the  shops — why  did  the  thought 
of  New  York  set  a  little  chill  in  her  heart? 
Were  they  alive  or  dead?  In  all  these  years 
she  had  not  made  the  least  effort  to  find 
out.  New  York  .  .  .  youth  that  had  known 
nothing  but  poverty!  With  a  repellent 
gesture  she  cast  out  these  thoughts  and 
picked  up  a  fashion  magazine. 

In  compartment  6,  the  young  woman 
read  a  manuscript,  while  the  elderly  maid 
with  the  broad,  stolid  countenance  of  the 
Breton  peasant,  brushed  the  golden  hair 
tenderly.  By  and  by  the  manuscript  flut- 
tered to  the  floor.  She  knew  it  so  abso- 
lutely, even  after  these  months.  She  stared 
at  the  partition.  She  saw  in  fancy  a  window- 
curtain,  forms  swaying  back  and  forth, 
then  darkness.  She  would  never  be  able 
to  identify  the  men.  She  had  cried  and 
shaken  the  iron  bars  of  the  gate  until  her 
palms  had  peeled. 

"Sarah,  dear,  am  I  tiring  you  out?" 
"I  love  to  brush  your  hair,  madame." 
"I  mean  the  slaving  I've  set  you  to." 
"No,   madame.     The  only  happiness  I 

95 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

know  rests  in  serving  madame  faithfully. 
Besides,  madame  has  told  me  that  all  this 
is  for  France;  and  that  is  enough  for  me,  who 
am  Breton." 

"Then  I  am  still  beautiful  to  you?" 

The  maid  smiled.  "  Madame,  that  hand- 
some young  man  with  the  little  green 
bird  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"Madame  is  not  offended?" 

"No,  Sarah.     Speak  on." 

"Well,  it  would  appear  that  madame— 
and  madame  knows  that  I  am  observing — 
no  longer  despises  mankind." 

"Oh,  but  he  isn't  a  man,  Sarah!" 

"But  yes,  madame!" 

"No.  He  is  an  anachronism — a  half-god 
who  has  lost  the  way  to  Olympus." 

"Ah!  If  madame  is  not  interested?" — 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Men!  How  well  I  know  men!  The 
sameness  of  them!  What  do  they  offer 
me?  Orchids,  hothouse  grapes,  jewels  that 
I  return.  Never  a  flower  that  is  free  and 
wild.  What  is  it  I  want,  Sarah?  Romance! 
A  whirlwind,  an  avalanche,  to  sweep  me  up, 
to  carry  me  off — berserker  love!  A  man 
who'll  take  me  if  I'm  what  he  wants,  with- 

96 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

out  pursuing  me  in  circles.  I  am  a  viking's 
daughter!  This  man?  .  .  .  We  shall  wait 
and  see.  Get  me  to  bed.  I  am  weary." 

Meanwhile  Mathison  went  through  his 
magazines,  taking  in  the  pictures  first.  Then 
he  fell  upon  a  good  story.  It  was  illustrated 
by  photographs,  and  one  of  the  photographs 
made  him  forget  the  story.  What  was  it? 
What  was  it  that  stirred  in  the  back  of  his 
head  at  the  sight  of  this  bit  of  dramatized 
photography?  He  studied  it  near  and 
afar,  from  this  angle  and  that,  but  the  lure 
remained  tantalizingly  beyond  reach. 

Fate  never  hurries.  She  takes  time  in 
writing  her  human  scenarios;  she  can  afford 
to.  She  knows  that  inexorably  they  will  be 
enacted,  without  deviation.  She  had  chosen 
this  moment  to  place  before  Mathison's 
eye  the  photograph  of  a  beautiful  young 
woman. 

The  train  from  Omaha  arrived  in  Chicago 
exactly  twenty -four  hours  late.  Great 
storms  were  raging  across  the  land. 

As  Mathison  was  passing  through  the 
gate — the  green  ribbon  in  his  buttonhole — 
a  man  approached  him  covertly  and  thrust 
an  envelope  into  his  hand.  More  tickets.1 

97 


Mathison  did  not  accelerate  his  stride  in 
the  least.  He  knew  that  everything  was 
prepared  for  him.  Upon  reaching  the  cab- 
stand he  stopped.  At  once  three  taxis 
rolled  up.  Mathison  bundled  his  luggage 
into  the  middle  cab,  rested  Malachi's  cage 
on  his  knees,  shouted  an  order,  and  the 
three  cabs  started  off  rapidly. 

The  snow  was  coming  down  in  thick 
sheets.  A  blizzard  was  in  the  offing. 

Just  outside  the  regular  cab-stand  stood 
a  private  car,  a  heavy,  powerful  limousine. 
As  the  three  taxis  rolled  away  into  the 
storm  a  man  dashed  up  to  the  limousine, 
jumped  in  and  called  to  the  chauffeur: 

"The  middle  car;  follow  that.  Smash  it 
or  tip  it  over.  In  a  storm  like  this  acci- 
dents will  happen." 

The  limousine  shot  forward.  The  going 
was  heavy.  The  man  in  the  limousine  saw 
the  three  taxis  string  out  a  little  as  they 
went  on.  What  he  did  not  see  was  the 
fourth  taxi  which  followed  him. 

Almost  in  a  kind  of  military  maneuver 
the  three  taxis  forward  veered  together 
suddenly  and  shot  down  a  side-street.  It 
took  the  limousine  two  minutes  to  pick 
them  up  again.  There  were  plenty  of  arc- 


98 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

lights,  and  by  the  aid  of  these  the  pursuer 
saw  that  he  had  gained  a  little.  They 
were  strung  out  again,  about  fifteen  feet 
apart.  They  held  this  formation  for  several 
blocks. 

To  the  occupant  of  the  limousine  this 
was  baffling  as  well  as  maddening.  He 
saw  that  until  they  separated  it  would  be 
impossible  to  ram  the  middle  taxi.  He 
decided  to  draw  up  broadside. 

The  woman  in  the  fourth  taxi  laughed. 

"  Sarah,  that  young  man  knows  how  to 
take  care  of  himself.  If  I  should  happen 
to  fire  a  pistol,  you  promise  not  to 
scream?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

The  young  woman  laughed  again.  "Oh, 
this  is  glorious!  I  feel  all  my  youth  com- 
ing back.  I'm  alive!  alive!  alive!  The 
fates  have  appointed  me  his  godmother, 
Sarah.  My  duty  is  to  watch  over  him 
until  ...  he  grows  up!" 

The  maid  smiled  in  the  dark. 

Presently  the  man  in  the  limousine  cried 
out  joyfully.  The  forward  cab  swooped 
north,  the  rear  one  south,  while  the  middle 
car  continued  east  toward  the  railway 
station. 

99 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Now!  Beat  into  it!  Anything  to  stop 
it!" 

A  block  farther  on  the  private  car  and 
the  taxi  collided.  The  latter  reeled  toward 
the  curb  and  stopped. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AS  the  man  in  the  limousine  jumped  out 
/~\  his  chauffeur  pointed  his  hand  menac- 
ingly at  the  chauffeur  on  the  taxicab  seat. 
That  individual  raised  his  arms  without 
resistance.  He  could  not  see  the  gun,  but 
he  knew  it  was  there. 

The  man  with  the  straw-colored  hair  swung 
open  the  door  of  the  taxicab  ferociously — to 
find  the  cab  empty.  He  whirled  back  into 
the  limousine,  which  was  already  moving. 
The  right  mud-guard  was  badly  crumpled.  J 

" Station — all  the  power  you've  got!" 

Tricked.  He  understood  what  had  hap- 
pened. When  the  taxis  had  maneuvered 
into  the  side-street  the  original  middle  car 
had  gone  either  to  the  front  or  to  the  rear. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  play  his  last 
card — mistaken  identity.  To  get  Mathison 
away  from  his  luggage  for  an  hour  or  two. 

The  occupant  of  the  fourth  taxi,   also 

comprehending    what    had    taken    place, 

101 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

picked  up  the  speaking-tube  and  ordered 
full  speed  ahead. 

"Sarah,  this  young  man  will  bear  watch- 
ing. He  has  ideas.  I  doubt  if  I  shall  be 
necessary  to  him  at  all." 

"If  madame  should  be  hurt  ..." 
"No  bridges'  until  we  come  to  them. 
Keep  your  veil  down.     He  might  be  watch- 
ing from  his  car- window  when  we  arrive. 
He  must  never  see  you." 

Mathison  was  extremely  pleased  with  the 
result  of  his  exploit.  To  have  thought  out 
all  these  moves  in  mid-Pacific,  and  to  find 
them  moving  without  a  hitch!  He  closed 
the  door  of  his  compartment  and  drew  the 
window-curtains.  He  pulled  down  the  cov- 
ering of  Malachi's  cage. 

"Malachi,  you're  likely  to  think  cross- 
eyed all  the  rest  of  your  days.  But  to- 
morrow night  at  this  time  you'll  have 
peace  and  quiet." 

Then,  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  he  saw 
a  bit  of  paper  come  jerkily  under  the  door. 
He  pounced  upon  it.v 

All  compartments  2  on  train  bought  out  in  ad- 
vance;   unknown  persons.     Want   anything   done 
about  it?    Answer  window. 
102 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

After  a  minute's  wait  Mathison  raised 
the  curtain  a  little  and  gave  a  negative 
sign  with  his  hand.  Then  he  dropped  upon 
the  lounge.  So  that's  how  it  had  hap- 
pened !  Luck  and  accident  in  San  Fran- 
cisco because  travel  East  had  been  light, 
but  a  matter  of  foresight  and  calculation  in 
Omaha  and  Chicago.  Confident  that  he 
would  always  occupy  No.  1,  that  he  would 
travel  a  given  route  as  rapidly  as  transpor- 
tation facilities  permitted,  they  had  bought 
out  No.  2  compartments  on  both  trains. 

There  would  be  real  action  from  now  on. 
They  would  begin  to  realize  that  they  hadn't 
any  time  to  lose.  Very  well;  they  would 
find  him  ready.  He  smiled.  The  Secret 
Service  agents  were  beginning  to  fidget,  the 
best  possible  proof  that  his  plans  were 
moving  forward  like  clockwork.  To-morrow 
night  the  climax!  Only  a  few  more  strands 
and  the  web  would  be  complete. 

"We  idiotic  Yankees!" 

He  went  to  bed  early.  He  was  confident 
that  there  would  be  no  more  gas.  He  was 
dead  for  the  need  of  a  few  hours  of  recuper- 
ative sleep.  The  jolting  ride  across  town 
had  helped  to  dissipate  most  of  the  bodily 
numbness;  but  now  his  brain  was  crying 

103 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

out  for  oblivion.  He  fell  asleep  almost 
instantly. 

And  yet  a  cessation  of  movement  brought 
him  out  of  this  profound  slumber.  It  was 
as  if  his  subconsciousness  had  stood  on 
guard.  He  peered  out  from  the  side  of 
the  curtain.  They  were  in  a  railway  yard 
somewhere.  Stalled.  Freights  were  all 
about  and  yard  engines  puffing  and  whis- 
tling. He  looked  at  his  watch.  Two.  He 
had  slept  four  hours.  He  resisted  the  in- 
tense craving  to  bury  his  head  in  the  pillow 
again.  No  doubt  he  had  been  refreshed  act- 
ually, but  he  was  still  drunk  for  the  want  of 
sleep.  He  slipped  out  of  his  berth,  drenched 
a  towel  and  slapped  it  over  his  face.  Then 
he  turned  on  the  lights  and  dressed.  When 
the  right  tune  came  he  would  sleep  forty 
hours. 

The  train  went  on  at  four.  At  dawn  it 
came  to  a  standstill  again  and  did  not  stir 
until  nine.  They  were  on  a  side-track,  and 
along  the  main  line  freight  was  roaring  and 
thundering.  What  was  happening  to  the 
world?  A  limited,  one  of  the  fastest  known, 
side-tracked  for  freight!  From  six  until 
nine  the  freight  rolled  by. 

A  newspaper!    It  was  almost  unbeliev- 

104 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

able.  He  felt  rather  stunned.  He  hadn't 
held  a  newspaper  in  his  hands  since  leaving 
Honolulu!  He  did  not  actually  know 
whether  the  Germans  were  in  Paris  or  the 
Allies  in  Berlin.  So  held  by  the  chase 
across  the  continent,  giving  his  every 
thought  to  the  affair,  he  had  forgotten  that 
the  world  was  going  on  outside  this  particu- 
lar orbit  and  great  events  were  toward. 

Twice  again  that  day  there  were  long  de- 
lays at  sidings,  east  of  towns  barely  men- 
tioned on  the  map.  All  the  freight  in  Amer- 
ica seemed  to  be  moving  east.  On  schedule 
time  the  train  should  be  passing  through 
central  New  York;  and  here  they  were, 
miles  and  miles  west  of  Buffalo,  the  next 
real  stop.  The  reporter  brought  him  a 
sporting  page  from  one  Chicago  newspaper 
and  the  editorial  page  from  another.  He 
was  vaguely  able  to  learn  that  nothing  new 
had  happened  Over  There,  and  that  there 
was  a  coal  famine  and  a  great  congestion 
at  ports  for  lack  of  ships. 

He  began  to  fuss  and  fume  and  fret.  He 
endeavored  a  thousand  times  to  find  a  fresh 
angle  for  his  weary  shoulders.  It  couldn't 
be  done.  Pullmans  were  built  for  divi- 
dends, not  comfort. 

8  105 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

He  wore  a  gray  traveling-suit  and  a  cap 
to  match.  The  suit,  though  new,  was  in 
an  astonishingly  disreputable  state.  The 
solution  is  apparent;  it  does  not  signify 
carelessness.  The  fact  is  that  you  cannot 
loll  and  twist  and  curl  up  and  at  the  same 
time  keep  the  warp  and  woof  of  Scotch 
worsteds  shipshape. 

He  yawned,  stretched  his  arms  until  the 
sockets  cracked,  turned  wrathfully  and 
struck  the  top  of  the  seat — that  rolling 
lopover  which  is  still  one  of  the  mysteries 
of  modern  times.  Perhaps,  in  making  the 
original  car  there  had  been  a  few  yards  of 
plush  and  excelsior  left  over.  "Splendid! 
Just  enough  for  a  pillow  on  the  top  of  the 
seat-back,  where  no  human  head  might 
reach  it  reposefully. 

Mathison  jumped  to  his  feet  and  went 
through  a  bit  of  setting-up  exercise.  It 
was  wasted  effort.  When  a  man  is  bored 
to  the  point  where  his  soul  aches  along  with 
his  body,  what  he  needs  is  a  mental  jolt, 
not  a  quickening  of  his  respiratory  organs. 
Nothing  except  that  which  attacks  the  eye 
surprisingly  will  serve  to  pull  a  man  out  of 
the  bog  of  such  lethargy. 

Within  the  compartment,  a  pressed-steel 

106 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON. 

imitation  red  mahogany,  green  plush"  and 
a  bluish  haze  which  was  the  essence  of 
many  incinerated  cigars  and  consumed 
pipes;  outside,  snow,  thick  and  dusty  and 
impenetrable.  A  great  rimless,  earthless, 
skyless  world.  But  for  the  clatter  of 
wheel  upon  rail,  the  train  might  have  been 
speeding  through  the  clouds;  the  illusion 
was  almost  perfect.  Darkness  was  falling. 
Winter!  After  all  these  years  of  tropical 
climes ! 

The  confinement  was  really  heartbreak- 
ing. Never  had  he  been  shut  up  like  this. 
And  the  craving  for  sleep  was  becoming  a 
menace.  It  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad 
had  he  dared  move  about  freely,  eat  his 
meals  in  the  diner,  and  smoke  his  cigar  or 
pipe  among  men. 

On  the  opposite  seat  were  the  magazines 
which  had  been  given  him  in  Omaha.  He 
reached  for  one  of  them.  He  had  long  since 
read  all  the  stories  and  advertisements. 
Whenever  monotony  reached  that  point 
where  it  threatened  to  become  insupport- 
able he  dove  for  these  magazines.  He  could 
keep  himself  awake  with  them. 

Odd,  but  he  was  always  returning  to  that 
posed  photograph.  It  haunted  him:  a 

107 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

wonderful  bit  of  photography.  Rembrandt 
in  tone.  It  was  a  restaurant  scene.  The 
woman's  arms  and  shoulders  were  lovely, 
but  her  face  was  a  leaden  silhouette,  tantal- 
izing, until  you  chanced  to  look  into  the 
wall  mirror  at  the  far  side  of  her.  Even 
this  reflection  was  dim;  but  you  caught  the 
beauty  of  the  outline,  the  quiet  strength  of 
the  nose  and  chin;  a  rare  face,  not  only 
beautiful,  but  intellectual.  For  a  long  time 
Mathison  stared  at  it;  and  then  he  discov- 
ered something  he  had  missed  in  previous 
scrutinies.  In  the  lower  right-hand  corner, 
in  very  small  type,  he  read,  "Posed  by 
Norma  Farrington."  Some  new  actress. 
As  for  that,  many  new  ones  had  come  and 
gone  since  he  had  visited  New  York.  He 
tore  out  the  picture.  He  couldn't  have 
told  why.  Norma  Farrington.  He  smiled. 
An  idea  had  come  to  him,  a  charming 
idea  such  as  often  tickles  the  imagination 
of  young  men  when  they  see  the  portrait  of 
a  beautiful  woman.  The  more  he  mulled 
over  the  idea  the  more  fascinating  it  became. 
Certainly  she  would  not  have  him  arrested 
for  wanting  to  meet  her.  He  folded  the 
picture  and  put  it  away.  Supposing  he 
really  started  out  upon  such  an  adventure 

108 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

in  earnest,  not  in  imagination?  Danger? 
Scarcely,  with  the  little  time  he  had  at  his 
disposal.  Soon  he  would  be  in  the  waters 
that  were  full  of  slinking  death.  And  it 
was  this  fact  that  let  down  the  bars  to  the 
spirit  of  recklessness.  A  few  hours  of  sport 
before  the  death  grapple.  Why  not?  Why 
not?  Why  not?  pulsed  his  father's  blood. 
No.  He  was  John  Mathison's  master.  Wild 
blood  he  might  have  in  his  veins,  but  it  was 
also  the  blood  of  unbroken  promises. 

What  had  started  this  rather  sinister 
idea  in  his  mind,  or  rather  reawakened  it? 
The  photograph  of  the  actress?  No.  The 
gray  lady.  The  charm  of  her  companion- 
ship, the  hint  of  the  things  he  had  missed. 
Queer  things,  human  beings! 

No,  he  would  not  bother  Norma  Farring- 
ton.  He  would  build  one  of  his  exciting 
romances  around  her  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
But  he  would  hunt  up  Mrs.  Chester  before 
his  leave  was  over,  have  tea  with  her,  pre- 
sent her  with  Malachi,  and  tell  her  the  story 
in  detail. 

Another  human  inconsistency.  Hallowell 
had  become  strangely  remote.  As  though 
the  thing  had  happened  months  instead  of 
days  ago.  And  yet  every  move  he  made 

109 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

was  in  the  service  of  Bob — to  bring  his  great 
dream  to  fulfilment  and  confusion  to  his 
enemies. 

He  heard  some  one  knocking  on  the  door. 
He  rose  quickly  and  stood  listening.  Two 
taps,  a  pause,  followed  by  two  more  taps. 
Mathison  released  the  lock,  and  with  his 
foot  ready  and  his  shoulders  hunched  he 
drew  back  the  door  about  an  inch.  He 
saw  the  shining  black  face  of  the  porter. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Bad  news,  suh." 

"  Come  along  inside."  The  porter  slipped 
through  the  opening,  and  he  winced  as  he 
heard  the  door  close  and  the  lock  snap. 
"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Dey's  a  big  freight  wreck  beyon'  de 
nex'  town,  an'  we'se  t'  be  stalled  ontil 
mo'nin',  suh." 

"What!"  explosively. 

"Yes,  suh.  Freight  ovah  de  passenjah 
rails.  An'  den  dey's  dat  new  rule — coal 
an'  freight  fust.  We  can't  get  by  dat 
wreck  onless  dey  side-tracks  de  freight;  an' 
de  freight  goes  whoozin'  by  while  we  twiddle 
thumbs.  It's  dat  Gahfield  awdah;  an'  dey 
ain't  no  use  buckin'  ag'in'  it,  wah-times. 

Dey  takes  the  diner  off,  too.     No  fish.     So 

no 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

yo'  will  haff  t'  eat  in  de  station  aw  go  t' 
one  o'  de  hotels  in  town." 

"How  big  a  town  is  this?" 

"Middlin';  but  dey's  got  a  fine  hotel 
called  de  Watkins,  jus'  a  little  ways  f'm 
de  station.  Bath  in  all  de  rooms,  suh." 

"Bath  hi  all  the  rooms,"  repeated  Mathi- 
son,  meditatively. 

"I  can  bring  yo'  sumpin'  in,"  suggested 
the  porter,  but  without  much  enthusiasm. 
"Dey  won't  be  no  trimmin's  like  yo'd  get 
at  de  hotel." 

"How  long  will  we  be  stalled?" 

"Dey  calc'lates  ontil  nine  in  de  mo'nin', 
suh." 

"What  are  the  other  passengers  going  to 
do?" 

"Dey's  all  climbin'  out  fo'  dinnuh." 

Mathison  pulled  at  his  lip.  His  decision 
came  in  a  flash,  one  of  that  caliber  which 
only  true  adventurers  dare  make.  The 
blind  Madonna  of  the  Pagan,  Chance! 
With  a  vave  of  the  hand,  to  consign  the 
burden  to  her!  Perhaps  it  was  the  green 
plush,  the  red  paint  on  the  four  steel  walls; 
anyhow,  he  decided  to  spend  the  night  at 
the  hotel.  He  would  immediately  deposit 

the  manila  envelope  and  the  little  red  book 

111 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

— HallowelFs — in  the  hotel  safe  and  advise 
New  York  by  wire  his  positive  whereabouts. 
If  anything  happened  to  him,  they  would 
know  where  to  find  his  personal  effects. 
There  would  be  no  Secret  Service  opera- 
tives at  his  beck  and  call  here;  he  would  be 
on  his  own. 

This  decision  reacted  upon  him  mentally 
and  physically  like  champagne.  All  his 
craving  for  sleep,  all  his  depression,  went  by 
the  board  magically.  He  began  to  thrill 
and  bubble  with  gaiety.  And  there  would 
be  Malachi.  In  the  quiet  of  the  hotel 
room  he  might  be  inveigled  into  talking. 

"All  right,  George;  I'll  climb  out,  too. 
The  Lord  help  me,  but  I  can't  stand  this 
damned  green  plush  any  longer!  I'll  spend 
the  night  at  your  Watkins.  Now  listen. 
When  the  train  stops  wait  half  an  hour  be- 
fore you  come  for  my  kit-bags.  Engage 
a  taxi.  If  you  can  get  me  into  that  taxi 
without  being  observed,  there'll  be  a  five- 
spot  for  you.  You  didn't  tell  the  waiter 
this  morning  about  knocking.  When  I 
finally  got  the  meal  it  was  cold.  " 

"I  done  fo'got.    I  sure  is  busy  dis  trip." 

"Will  you  be  aboard  aU  night?" 

"Yes,  suh.     I  ain't  allowed  to  leave  in  a 
112 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

case  like  dis.  Dey  won't  nobody  see  yo' 
in  all  dis  rampagin'  snow.  All  right; 
thutty  minutes  aftuh  de  train  stops." 

The  porter  backed  out.  Almost  instantly 
he  heard  the  lock  snap  into  the  socket.  He 
scratched  his  woolly  poll  ruminatingly. 

"Well,  suttinly  dis  niggah  nevah  struck 
a  bunch  like  dis  befo'.  Two  women  hidin' 
behin'  veils  w'en  I  makes  up  de  beds — like 
dey  jes'  got  ovah  smallpox.  An'  dis  chap 
makin'  me  signal  on  de  do',  an'  totin' 
a  parrot!  Well,  politeness  is  mah  middle 
name.  I'se  goin'  t'  do  jes'  es  dey  tells  me. 
W'en  I  gits  t'  New  York  I'll  buy  dat  Ford 
Lizzie." 

In  the  fourth  compartment  sat  three 
men,  playing  cutthroat  auction.  One  of 
them  had  just  bid  "two  without"  when 
the  porter  knocked. 

"Come  in !"  shouted  the  blond  man.  "Ah, 
George,  what's  the  news?" 

The  porter  became  a  very  mysterious  in- 
dividual. He  shut  the  door  softly  and 
leaned  toward  the  blond  man's  ear. 

"He's  goin'  int'  town,  suh." 

"Going  to  take  his  things  with  him?" 

"Yes,  suh.  I'm  t'  call  fo'  him  thutty 
minutes  aftuh  de  train  stops.  Dey's  sum- 

113 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

pin'  I  fo'got  t'  tell  yo',  suh.  It's  de  way  I 
has  t'  knock  on  his  do'  befo'  I  can  git  in. 
I  hits  two  times,  den  I  waits  a  moment,  den 
I  hits  two  times  mo'." 

One  of  the  men  started  to  say  something 
angrily,  but  the  blond  man  silenced  him 
with  a  gesture. 

"You  should  have  told  me  that  before, 
George,"  reproachfully. 

"I  know,  suh;  but  I  done  fo'got." 

"Remember  my  instructions.  A  mis- 
step on  your  part  and  you  land  in  jail." 

"Yes,  suh."  For  George  knew  these  men 
to  be  Secret  Service  men.  He  had  seen  the 
magic  shields.  "Dey  sure  fools  yo'  some- 
times, don't  dey?  He  don't  look  it." 

"That's  why  I'm  taking  all  these  pre- 
cautions. I  can't  arrest  him  until  we  cross 
the  New  York  state  line.  The  less  they 
look  like  it  the  more  dangerous  they  are. 
Always  remember  that,  George.  He  hasn't 
ordered  anything  to  drink,  has  he?" 

"No,  suh;  nuthin'  but  watah  an'  coffee." 

"He  hasn't  sent  or  received  any  tele- 
grams?" 

"No,  suh." 

"What  made  him  decide  to  risk  leaving 
the  car?" 

114 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

George  thought  for  a  moment.  "I 
reckons  it  was  de  green  plush.  He  said  he 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer." 

The  blond  man  laughed.  "Hush!  Well, 
I'd  risk  it  myself  if  I  were  in  his  boots. 
That's  all,  George." 

The  porter  bobbed  and  went  away.  The 
moment  the  door  closed  the  blond  man 
got  up. 

"Out  in  the  open  at  last!  Ah1  things 
come  to  him  who  waits.  Sleep.  That's 
what  he  is  after.  Since  the  fumes  I'll  wager 
he  has  kept  an  eye  open  every  night;  and 
it's  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  Everything 
is  turning  out  beautifully:  the  wreck,  the 
storm,  his  restlessness." 

"If  that  black  fool  had  only  told  us  about 
that  knocking!" 

"Never  mind  the  spilled  milk.  We  all 
know  what  to  do;  let  us  see  that  we  do  it. 
I'll  notify  the  local  police  at  once.  This 
may  be  the  end  of  the  chase.  This  porter 
is  telling  us  the  truth.  I  believe  now  that 
the  other  porter  told  the  truth.  Mathison 
isn't  relying  upon  anybody  to  help  him  out. 
He  hasn't  sent  any  telegrams  or  received 
any.  At  least,  not  from  his  own  car.  It 
may  be  ...  No;  he  never  leaves  the  com- 

115 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

partment.  Yet  there's  those  three  taxis. 
How  could  these  turn  up  if  he  hadn't  tele- 
graphed? Never  mind.  Here  is  where  we 
shall  trip  him  up.  I'll  go  and  tell  Berta." 

Shortly  after  he  rapped  on  the  door  of 
the  second  compartment.  The  door  was 
opened  cautiously. 

"Oh!"  said  the  woman  with  the  mole. 

The  blond  man  stepped  inside.  "Good 
news!  He's  going  into  this  town  for  the 
night.  There's  a  wreck  ahead,  and  we'll  be 
stalled  all  night.  He's  going  to  risk  it  in 
the  open  at  last.  Sleep.  He's  going  to 
pieces  for  the  want  of  it.  Out  in  the  open !" 

"It  is  time.  I  am  dead.  I'll  never  get 
the  cramp  out  of  my  poor  body.  Nearly 
three  thousand  miles  cooped  up  like  this! 
You  were  free.  I  had  to  stay  packed  away 
in  this  suffocating  box."  She  stooped  and 
peered  out  of  the  window.  The  suburb 
lights  were  flashing  by.  ' '  A  horrible  night !' ' 

"On  the  contrary,  I  should  call  it  beauti- 
ful. We  are  and  have  been  perfectly  pre- 
pared against  a  move  like  this.  He  carries 
two  things  I  must  have." 

"I  shall  be  glad  when  it's  over." 

"To-night.  It  will  depend  upon  you. 
Be  careful.  He  is  very  strong  and  clever. 

116 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

I  thought  the  chase  would  be  over  in  Chi- 
cago last  night.  He  tricked  me  neatly.  But 
green  plush !"  _  The  blond  man  laughed 
quietly. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"He's  going  into  this  town,  he's  going  to 
trust  to  his  luck,  because  he  can't  stand  the 
sight  of  green  plush  any  longer.  It's  acting 
upon  him  psychologically,  like  red  upon  the 
righting  toro.  On  the  other  hand,  he  will 
not  act  impulsively  again." 

"He  hasn't  gone  yet." 

"A  fig  for  that!  He'll  go  with  the  police, 
then.  His  way  or  mine;  he'll  go  into  town 
to-night.  Dress  warmly  but  elegantly .  Look 
the  part." 

Mathison  put  on  a  fresh  collar  and 
brushed  himself  carefully.  He  packed  his 
kit-bags  and  patted  them  affectionately, 
as  a  hunter  might  have  patted  his  faithful 
hounds.  A  real  dinner,  lights,  cheerful- 
ness, pretty  women;  a  room  big  enough  to 
turn  around  in,  a  bed  big  enough  to  turn 
over  in,  and  a  bathroom  with  a  tub  of  hot 
water;  a  theater,  perhaps,  drama,  opera, 
burlesque,  whatever  the  town  had  to  offer. 
He  would  play  the  game  to  the  hilt.  His 
danger  would  be  maximum,  whether  he 

117 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

stayed  in  the  hotel  or  walked  abroad.  So 
he  might  as  well  get  all  the  fun  out  of  it 
possible. 

He  lifted  the  cotton-flannel  bag.  "  Mal- 
achi,  we'll  both  have  a  bath  to-night.  Only, 
we're  probably  doing  a  fool  thing.  There 
won't  be  any  one  to  watch  over  us;  we'll 
have  to  go  it  on  our  own.  But  I'm  done. 
I've  got  to  get  outside.  You  poor  little 
beggar!  Are  you  ever  going  to  talk  again? 
Malachi!" 

A  pair  of  yellow  eyes  flashed  belligerently, 
but  immediately  the  lids  dropped. 

Perhaps  if  the  bird  had  the  run  of  a  room 
where  everything  was  silent  and  motionless, 
he  might  find  his  tongue.  For  days  he  had 
known  nothing  but  the  strange  swing 
of  the  sea  and  the  rattle  of  steel.  A  quiet 
room  in  which  he  could  wander  about  and 
claw  up  the  curtains. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT  precisely  six -thirty  the  porter  re- 
turned. He  announced  his  arrival  in 
the  peculiar  manner  previously  described. 

"De  taxi  is  waitin'  fo'  yo',  suh,"  he 
whispered. 

"Good  for  you,  George.  Some  snow- 
storm !" 

"It  sure  is.  Yo'  can't  see  yo'  hand  befo' 
yo'  face.  I  tol'  de  cabby  t'  take  yo'  straight 
t'  de  Watkins.  On'y  a  sho't  ways.  De 
Watkins  is  fash'nable  an'  has  a  cobbyray — 
leastwise  dey  did  befo'  we  got  int'  dis  wah. 
Anyhow,  dey'll  give  yo'  all  de  comfo'ts  o' 
home,  an'  I  reckon  dey's  whut's  achin' 
yo'." 

"The  nail  on  the  head,  George.  But  I 
mustn't  miss  this  train.  Remember  that." 

"I'll  telephone,  suh,  ef  dey  makes  up  any 
time." 

Passenger  and  porter  hurried  from  the 
car  to  the  station  platform,  crossed  two 

119 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

tracks,  passed  through  the  waiting-room, 
thence  to  the  street,  which  you  could  not 
see  across  for  the  curtain  of  driving  snow. 
There  was  a  line  of  taxis  at  the  curb.  It 
appeared  that  everybody  had  deserted  the 
train. 

Mathison  knew  that  he  had  committed  a 
blunder.  There  was  even  now  a  chance  to 
run  back;  but  stubbornly  he  faced  the  di- 
rection toward  which  he  had  set  his  foot. 
A  blunder  which,  before  the  night  was 
over,  might  become  a  catastrophe.  Well, 
one  thing  was  certain:  they  should  never 
lay  hands  upon  that  manila  envelope.  He 
would  deposit  it  in  the  hotel  safe.  Once 
that  was  done,  they  could  come  at  him 
from  all  directions,  if  they  cared  to.  He 
knew  exactly  every  move  he  was  going  to 
make. 

"Boss,  I  wish  I  was  whah  dese  bags  come 
f'm.  Pineapples  an'  melons;  oh,  boy!  Say, 
I  ain't  nachelly  inquis'tive,  but  what's  in 
dat  cage?" 

"A  ghost,  George,  by  the  name  of 
Palceornis  torquatus" 

"I  pass!" 

Mathison  laughed.     "It's  a  parrakeet,  a 

hop-o'-my-thumb  of  a  bird." 

120 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Talk?" 

"  Almost  as  much  as  you  do,  George." 

The  porter  grinned  and  helped  stow  the 
luggage  inside  the  cab.  Mathison  climbed 
in  and  slammed  the  door.  The  porter 
watched  the  taxicab  until  the  gray,  swirling 
pall  swallowed  it  up.  He  pocketed  the  bill. 

"Dey  ain't  no  reason  why,  but  I  sure 
hates  t'  take  dat  young  man's  money,"  he 
mused,  remorsefully.  "De  undah  dawg; 
I  s'pose  dat's  it.  W'en  dey  don't  look  like 
it  dey  is.  What's  he  done,  I  wonduh?  A 
parrot!  Fust  time  I  ev'  seen  a  white  man 
tote  a  parrot.  An'  he  don't  look  like  a 
henpeck,  neither." 

He  turned  and  jogged  back  to  the  train. 

The  taxicabs  began  to  straggle  along. 
The  streets  were  full  of  ruts  and  drifts, 
and  the  vehicles  looked  like  giant  beetles 
scurrying. 

Gloomy  town,  thought  Mathison,  as  he 
peered  first  from  one  window  then  from  the 
other.  Not  a  cheery,  winking  electric  sign 
anywhere.  Then  he  recalled  the  reason, 
as  explained  by  the  porter.  A  coal  famine 
had  forced  a  temporary  abandonment  of 
this  wonder  of  American  cities. 

It  was  stinging  cold,  somewhere  around 
9  121 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

zero.  He  threw  the  lap-robe  over  the  cage. 
Malachi  wasn't  used  to  the  cold.  The 
shop-windows  gleamed  like  beaten  gold,  so 
thick  were  they  with  frost.  The  cab  lurched, 
staggered,  and  skidded. 

"  Lord !  but  the  smell  of  clean  snow !"  He 
dipped  his  chin  into  his  collar.  He  had 
been  away  from  this  kind  of  weather  so 
long  that  it  bit  in. 

Cabs  in  front  and  cabs  behind.  Were 
they  following  him?  Likely  enough.  They 
would  be  fools  if  they  didn't.  A  hot  bath 
and  a  bed  for  himself  and  a  room  to  rove 
about  in  for  Malachi.  The  thing  was 
written,  anyhow;  and  deep  down  in  his  soul 
he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  pull  through. 
Fire,  water,  and  poison  gas. 

In  about  ten  minutes  the  cab  came  to  a 
halt.  The  door  was  opened  and  a  bellboy 
grinned  hopefully  and  hospitably.  Mathi- 
son  stepped  down  from  the  cab,  gave  a 
dollar  to  the  driver,  and  reached  for  Malachi 
and  one  of  the  kit-bags,  leaving  the  other 
for  the  boy.  He  sprang  up  the  hotel  steps, 
keenly  exhilarated.  He  felt  alive  for  the 
first  time  in  days.  He  swept  on  to  the 
desk,  planted  the  kit-bag  strategically  and 

ordered  a  room  with  a  bath.     But  as  the 

122 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

clerk  offered  the  pen  Mathison  frowned. 
He  hadn't  planned  against  the  contingency 
of  signing  his  name  to  hotel  registers.  His 
slight  hesitancy  was  not  noticed  by  the 
clerk.  Mathison  was  not  without  a  fund 
of  dry  humoir,  and  a  flash  of  it  swept  over 
him  at  this  moment. 

He  wrote  "  Richard  Whittington,  Lon- 
don." He  chuckled  inwardly.  The  name 
had  popped  into  his  head  with  one  of  those 
freakish  rallies  of  memory;  but  presently 
he  was  going  to  regret  it. 

"Room  with  bath;  number  three  hundred 
and  twenty.  Here,  boy!  How  long  do  you 
expect  to  be  with  us,  sir?"  asked  the  clerk, 
perfunctorily. 

"Until  morning.  Train  stalled  on  ac- 
count of  wreck.  You  have  a  good  safe?" 

"Strong  as  a  bank's." 

"Very  good.  I'll  be  down  shortly  with 
some  valuables." 

"Bird?" 

"A  parrakeet." 

"That'll  be  all  right.  We  bar  dogs  and 
cats." 

The  door  of  the  elevator  had  scarcely 
closed  behind  Mathison  when  a  man  walked 
leisurely  over  to  the  desk  and  inspected  the 

123 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

freshly  written  signature.  He  seemed 
startled  for  a  moment;  then  he  laughed. 

"A  room,  sir?" 

"No.  I  was  looking  to  see  if  a  friend 
of  mine  had  arrived.  He  hasn't." 

The  stranger  walked  away;  he  strolled 
into  the  bar,  looked  into  the  restaurant, 
mounted  the  first  flight  of  stairs  and  wan- 
dered into  the  parlor,  which  was  empty  and 
chilly.  Next  he  hailed  an  elevator  and 
asked  to  be  let  out  on  the  third  floor.  Here 
he  walked  to  the  end  of  the  corridor  and 
returned,  took  the  next  car  down,  and  went 
directly  into  the  street.  At  the  north  side 
of  the  hotel  was  an  alley.  The  man  stared 
speculatively  into  this,  jumped  into  a  wait- 
ing taxicab  and  made  off. 

Half  an  hour  later  a  woman  entered  the 
hotel  parlor,  selected  a  chair  by  the  corridor 
wall,  and  sat  down.  You  might  have  gone 
into  the  parlor  and  departed  without  no- 
ticing her. 

Meanwhile  Mathison  set  the  cage  by  the 
radiator,  went  into  the  bathroom,  came  back 
and  felt  of  the  bed,  and  smiled  at  the  bellboy. 

"This  will  do  nicely.  How  big  a  town 
is  this?" 

"About  seventy  thousand,  sir." 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"What's  the  name  of  it?" 

The  boy  grinned.  Here  was  one  of  those 
"fresh  guys"  who  were  always  springing 
wheezes  like  this  because  they  thought  the 
"hops"  expected  it. 

"Petrograd." 

Mathison  caught  the  point  immediately. 
"Boy,  on  my  word,  I  haven't  the  least  idea 
what  the  name  of  this  town  is.  I'm  off 
the  stalled  flyer,  and  I  forgot  to  ask  the 
porter.  I  wanted  a  bed  instead  of  a  bunk. 
Now  shoot." 

The  boy  named  the  town. 

"What  have  you  got  in  the  line  of 
theaters?" 

"This  is  Tuesday,"  answered  the  boy. 

"I  know  that.  Is  there  a  comic  opera  or 
a  good  burlesque?" 

"Are  you  guying  me?  Where'd  juh 
come  from?" 

"The  other  side  of  the  world." 

"I  guess  that's  right.  Why,  this  is  show- 
less  Tuesday,  all  east  of  the  Mississippi. 
Even  little  Mary  Pickford  ain't  working 
to-day.  New  York,  Boston — it's  all  the 
same.  Nothing  doing.  The  new  law;  all 
the  theaters,  movies,  billiard-parlors,  and 
bowling-alleys  dark." 

1525 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Well,  I'll  be  haDged!" 

"It's  the  war,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  soberly. 
"I'm  in  the  next  draft.  I  don't  want  to 
kill  anybody;  but  if  I've  got  to  do  it  I'm 
going  to  learn  how." 

Mathison  held  out  his  hand.  "That's 
the  kind  of  talk.  It's  bad,  bloody  work, 
but  it's  got  to  be  done.  Here's  a  telegram 
I  want  sent.  Don't  bother  bringing  back 
the  change.  But  don't  fail  to  have  this 
wire  sent." 

"I  won't  fail,  sir." 

"Now,  I  want  you  to  give  this  order  to 
the  waiter." 

After  a  word  or  two  the  boy  interrupted 
Mathison.  "No  meat.  Fish,  lobster,  oys- 
ters, chicken." 

"All  right;  make  it  chicken,  then.  And 
tell  him  to  bring  a  banana  and  some  al- 
monds. And  mind  this  particularly.  Tell 
the  waiter  to  knock  once  loudly.  Make  no 
mistake  about  that." 

"Yes,  sir"j  but  the  boy's  eyes  began  to 
widen  perceptibly.  Here  was  a  queer  bird. 

After  the  boy  had  departed  Mathison 
double-locked  the  door.  Then  he  liberated 
Malachi.  The  bird  came  out  and  stood 
before  the  door  of  his  cage  indecisively. 

128 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Then  he  reached  down  and  whetted  his  beak 
on  the  carpet. 

"Chup!"  he  muttered. 

"  You  little  son-of-a-gun !"  cried  Mathison, 
delighted.  It  was  the  first  time  Malachi 
had  spoken  since  leaving  Manila.  Mathison 
stooped  and  extended  his  index  finger.  By 
aid  of  claw  and  beak,  the  bird  mounted  the 
living  perch  and  slowly  worked  his  way  up 
the  arm.  "The  little  son-of-a-gun,  he's 
alive  again!  Malachi,  are  you  cold?" 

Malachi  grumbled  in  his  own  tongue. 
Mathison  approached  a  curtain,  and  the 
bird  at  once  transferred  himself  to  that, 
clawing  his  way  up  to  the  pole,  where  he 
began  to  preen  himself.  His  master  watched 
him  for  a  few  minutes  contentedly.  Then 
he  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  saw  the 
dim  outlines  of  a  fire-escape.  He  could 
also  see  a  cross-section  of  the  street  beyond 
the  alley:  clouds  of  snow,  spouts,  whirl- 
winds. 

He  turned  from  the  window  swiftly  and 
tiptoed  to  the  door.  Some  one  had  turned 
the  knob  cautiously.  Mathison  waited  pa- 
tiently, but  the  knob  did  not  turn  again. 
Door-knobs — they  had  a  mysterious  way  of 
turning  in  the  night. 

127 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

There  would  be  no  going  out  this  night; 
so  he  might  as  well  make  himself  comfort- 
able. He  turned  to  the  kit-bags.  He 
opened  them  both,  took  a  pair  of  slippers 
from  the  top  of  one  and  a  dressing-gown  and 
toilet  articles  from  the  top  of  the  other. 
The  general  contents  of  both  bags  were 
as  neatly  and  as  compactly  arranged  as  a 
drummer's  case;  but  always  on  top  there 
would  be  pick-ups.  By  the  time  he  had 
bathed,  changed,  put  on  the  slippers  and 
gown — a  heavenly  blue  silk-brocade  such 
as  aristocratic  Chinese  wear — the  waiter 
arrived  with  the  dinner.  He  announced 
his  arrival  by  a  single  knock. 

The  door  was  opened  in  a  singular  fashion. 
Mathison  kept  totally  behind  it.  An  Orien- 
tal trick;  it  gave  one  the  opportunity  to 
strike  first,  if  it  were  necessary  to  strike; 
moreover,  it  prevented  any  one  in  the  hall  or 
corridor  observing  the  occupant  of  the  room. 
The  moment  the  waiter  stepped  inside  the 
door  was  closed  and  double-locked  again. 

"I  shall  require  no  service,  waiter.  Here's 
a  bill;  keep  the  change  for  your  tip." 

''Thank  you,  sir." 

The  lock  and  the  latch  were  released 
simultaneously.  So  adroitly  was  this  ac- 

128 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

complished  that  the  waiter  never  suspected 
that  he  had  been  locked  in  or  that  he  was 
immediately  going  to  be  locked  out. 

Mathison  crossed  over  to  the  table,  peeled 
a  banana,  lopped  off  a  bit,  and  jabbed  the 
fork  into  it.  This  he  took  to  the  parrakeet. 
Malachi  sidled  along  the  pole  solemnly  and 
reached  down  a  coral-red  claw. 

On  going  back  to  the  table  Mathison  felt 
top-hole  in  spirit.  The  telegram  was  off. 
If  anything  happened  they  would  know 
where  to  find  him.  After  he  had  finished 
his  dinner  he  would  find  a  hiding-place  for 
that  manila  envelope. 

Suddenly  he  became  seized  by  an  ironic 
whimsy,  an  impulse  which  in  normal  times 
he  would  have  analyzed  as  idiotic.  Never- 
theless, he  proceeded  to  materialize  it.  He 
searched  in  his  coat-pocket  for  the  picture 
of  the  actress,  sliced  off  the  non-essentials, 
and  propped  it  against  the  water  carafe. 
With  his  hand  on  his  heart  he  bowed. 

"  Paper  lady,  I  am  at  once  gratified  and 
deeply  chagrined  to  offer  you  a  repast  so 
poor.  I  had  planned  a  club  steak*  I've 
been  planning  it  for  six  long  years,  and 
patriotism  compels  me  to  eat  chicken — 
which  I  abominate!  You  are  disappointed? 

129 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

I'm  sorry.  You  won't  look  at  me?  Very 
well.  That's  not  your  fault;  it's  the  fault  of 
the  fool  photographer,  the  way  he  posed 
you.  Crazy?  Well,  perhaps.  But,  Lord's 
truth,  I  wish  I  did  know  somebody  like  you. 
I'm  the  lonesomest  duffer  in  all  this  God- 
forsaken world!" 

So,  while  he  munched  his  chicken  and 
Malachi  his  banana,  the  clerk  at  the  desk 
was  having  his  worries. 

"A  queer  bunch  got  off  that  stalled  train," 
he  said  to  the  manager. 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"  First  a  tanned  chap  with  two  bags  and 
a  parrot  signs  his  name  and  beats  it  for 
the  elevator  as  if  he  were  afraid  the  room 
would  vanish  before  he  got  to  it.  Another 
man  comes  up  and  looks  the  book  over. 
He  laughs.  Then  he  walks  off.  Right 
away  comes  a  veiled  woman  who  does  the 
same  thing.  Only  she  signs.  A  coat  that 
would  pay  next  year's  taxes,  but  no  hat. 
She  wants  room  two  hundred  and  twenty.  I 
ask  where  her  luggage  is,  and  she  says  she 
left  it  on  the  train.  But  she  hands  me  a 
twenty.  I  let  her  have  the  key.  Then  up 
comes  Sanford,  of  The  Courier.  When  he 
pipes  those  two  names  he  yells." 

130 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"What's  the  matter  with  them?"  asked 
the  manager.  He  was  not  particularly 
interested. 

"Why,  look  at  this.  Richard  Whitting- 
ton,  London.  Sanford  says  there  was  only 
one  man  ever  had  that  name,  and  he  was 
Lord  Mayor  of  London  five  hundred  years 
ago." 

"Oh,  pshaw!" 

"Wait  a  minute.  Here's  the  name  the 
woman  wrote.  Manon  Roland.  Sanford 
says  her  head  was  cut  off  in  the  French 
Revolution  in  1793.  One  alone,  all  right; 
but  two!" 

"So  long  as  they  pay  the  bill  and  behave 
themselves  there's  nothing  for  us  to  do. 
Perhaps  they  are  celebrities  and  don't  want 
to  be  bothered  by  reporters." 

"A  new  brand,  then.  I  never  saw  this 
kind  before.  Anyhow,  I  thought  I'd  put 
you  wise." 

From  afar  Mathison  heard  the  shrill,  pro- 
longed blast  of  a  railway  whistle.  Then 
a  rush  of  cold  air  struck  him.  The  paper 
lady  rose  suddenly  and  began  a  series  of 
violent  spiral  whirls  toward  the  door. 
Mathison  sprang  to  his  feet,  turning,  his 

131 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

automatic  ready.  He  remembered  now 
that  he  had  forgotten  to  examine  the  win- 
dow lock. 

Through  this  window  came  a  woman. 
She  stumbled  and  fell  to  her  knees,  but  she 
got  up  instantly.  She  wore  no  hat.  Her 
hair,  like  Roman  gold,  sparkled  with  melt- 
ing snow-flakes.  Under  this  hair  was  a 
face  which  had  the  exquisite  pallor  of 
Carrara  marble.  Her  eyes  were  as  purple 
as  Manila  Bay  after  the  sunset  gun.  From 
her  shoulders  hung  a  sable  coat  worth  a 
king's  ransom. 

Mathison's  heart  gave  a  great  bound; 
then  his  brain  cleared  and  his  thoughts  be- 
came cold  and  precise.  He  knew  who  she 
was.  Beautiful  beyond  anything  his  fertile 
imagination  had  conceived  of  her:  warm 
and  fragrant  as  a  Persian  rose.  Small  won- 
der that  poor  old  Bob  Hallowell  had  gone 
to  smash  over  her.  But  what  Hid  The 
Yellow  Typhoon  want  of  John  Mathison? 

"You  are  John  Mathison?"  she  asked, 
her  voice  scarcely  audible.  ''Richard 
Whittington?" 

"Yes."  His  eyes  still  marveling  over 
the  beauty  of  her.  It  was  unbelievable. 
A  wave  of  poignant  regret  went  over  him. 

132 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

The    tender    loveliness    of  a  Bouguereau 
housing  the  soul  of  a  Salome! 

"Then  take  heed.  You  are  in  grave 
danger.  You  carry  something  certain  men 
want  desperately  Don't  go  into  the  hall; 
don't  leave  your  room  under  any  circum- 
stances to-night.  The  hall  is  watched.  I 
dared  not  come  to  your  door.  They  must 
never  know  that  I  have  aided  you.  I  had 
to  climb  the  fire-escape.  I  dared  not  trust 
the  telephone.  Hide  whatever  you  have 
and  hide  it  well." 

It  is  possible  that  Mathison  presented 
a  unique  picture  to  the  woman.  The  blue 
robe  fluttered,  bulged,  and  collapsed  in  the 
wind.  It  fell  to  his  feet,  shimmering.  But 
for  the  color  of  it — had  it  been  yellow — 
Mathison  might  have  posed  as  a  priest  of 
Buddha.  His  handsome,  bronzed  face,  the 
cold  impassivity  of  his  eyes  and  mouth, 
might  have  passed  inspection  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  Shwe  Dagon  pagoda  in  Ran- 
goon— if  one  overlooked  the  healthy  thatch 
of  hair  on  his  head. 

She  broke  the  tableau  by  taking  from  the 
pocket  of  her  gray  coat  a  gray  veil  which 
she  wound  about  her  head,  turban-wise, 
dropping  the  edge  just  above  her  lips. 

133 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"One  word  more.  I  am  a  creature  of 
impulse.  I  may  regret  this  whim  shortly. 
I  may  even  return.  I  don't  know.  But  if 
I  do,  watch  out!  .  .  .  Beware  of  me!" 

She  backed  to  the  window,  stepped 
through  to  the  fire-escape  and  vanished  into 
the  night. 


FOR  a  space  Mathison  did  not  stir.  There 
was  something  hypnotic  in  this  singu- 
lar visitation,  but  it  was  physical  rather  than 
mental.  He  stared  at  the  blank  square  of 
the  window  as  Medusa's  victims  must  have 
stared  at  her — stonily.  Morgan  had  de- 
scribed the  woman  minutely,  and  out  of 
these  substances  and  delineations  Mathison 
had  created  a  blonde  Judith,  something  at 
once  beautiful  and  terrifying.  And  yet  he 
recognized  the  woman  almost  immediately. 
The  mind  often  acts  inconsequently  in 
crises.  At  the  back  of  his  brain  something 
was  clamoring  for  recognition.  He  was 
conscious  of  the  call,  but  there  seemed  to 
be  a  blank  wall  in  between.  It  was  conceiv- 
able that  the  sheer  loveliness  of  the  woman 
dazed  him.  On  his  guard,  yes,  alert  and 
watchful,  but  otherwise  nonplussed.  His 
confusion  was  doubtless  due  to  the  fact 
that  he  could  not  out  the  two  salients  to- 

135 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

gether.  It  was  utterly  illogical  that  any 
woman  so  tenderly  beautiful  should  be 
called  The  Yellow  Typhoon. 

He  recalled  Morgan's  description.  "A 
passionless,  merciless  leopardess.  She 
would  have  curled  Saint  Anthony's  beard 
and  taken  Michael's  flaming  sword  away 
from  him.  A  destroyer.  Don't  get  the 
impression  that  she  is  what  we  call  on  the 
loose.  That's  the  most  singular  part  of  it. 
Her  reputation  isn't  along  that  line.  Breaks 
men  for  the  pure  deviltry  of  it;  honorable 
men,  men  too  proud  to  fight  back.  Under- 
stand? Always  the  poor  devil  who  has 
something  or  everything  to  lose.  A  biga- 
mist, because  that  seemed  to  be  the  most 
exciting  game  she  could  apply  her  arts  to. 
And  always  just  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
law.  I  don't  suppose  there's  a  court  in  the 
world  that  could  convict  her  of  bigamy. 
So,  keep  your  eyes  open  and  your  guard  up. 
Remember,  I  wanted  to  ransack  the  ship." 

And  what  kind  of  a  game  was  she  about 
to  spring?  She  had  warned  him.  But  she 
had  added  that  she  might  return }  and  in 
that  event,  let  him  beware.  He  thought 
keenly  for  a  moment,  and  presently  he  saw 
a  way  out  of  the  labyrinth.  Very  clever! 

136 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

His  enemies  were  in  the  adjoining  rooms, 
watching  him  from  some  peephole  or  other. 
A  trick  to  make  him  take  the  manila  en- 
velope out  of  his  kit-bag  and  hide  it  anew— 
where  they  could  find  it  when  they  wanted  it. 
He  had  made  his  first  mistake.  He  should 
have  deposited  the  envelope  in  the  safe  be- 
fore coming  up.  The  hesitance  over  inscrib- 
ing his  name — any  name — on  the  register 
had  befogged  him  temporarily.  His  whole 
carefully  built  campaign  depended  upon 
getting  that  manila  envelope  to  New  York. 

What  followed  was  a  revelation  in  clear 
thinking,  acted  upon  swiftly. 

He  pulled  down  the  window,  locked  it, 
and  drew  the  shade.  He  got  into  his  clothes 
again,  dropped  the  automatic  into  the  right 
pocket  of  his  coat,  all  the  while  taking  in- 
ventory of  his  surroundings  in  panoramic 
glances.  Not  a  step  wasted,  not  a  thought 
that  needed  readjusting.  Under  the  tele- 
phone was  a  waste-basket.  In  this  there 
was  a  discarded  newspaper.  He  crossed 
the  room  and  turned  off  the  lights.  What 
he  did  now  was  done  in  the  dark.  From 
one  of  the  kit-bags  he  procured  the  manila 
envelope  and  the  little  red  book,  which  he 
strapped  together  with  a  rubber  band.  He 

10  137 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

tiptoed  over  to  the  waste-basket  and  slipped 
his  precious  packet  into  the  folds  of  the 
newspaper,  which  he  returned  to  the  basket. 
He  turned  on  the  lights  and  took  down  the 
telephone. 

"Hello!"  he  caUed,  softly.  "This  is 
room  three  hundred  and  twenty.  Will  you 
kindly  ascertain  for  me  if  rooms  three  eigh- 
teen and  three  twenty-two  are  occupied  by 
passengers  from  the  stalled  flier  from  Chi- 
cago? .  .  .  Yes,  I'll  hold  the  wire."  Two 
minutes  passed.  "They  are  not?  Thank 
you.  No;  nothing  of  importance.  Didn't 
know  but  they  might  be  friends  from  the 
train."  So  there  was  nothing  to  fear  from 
the  adjoining  rooms.  That  was  a  weight 
off  his  mind. 

But  it  was  also  a  new  angle  to  the  puzzle. 
Had  the  woman  really  tried  to  do  him  a 
service?  Was  it  inspired  by  some  vague 
regret  for  Hallowell?  Out  of  one  laby- 
rinth, but  into  another.  He  ran  to  the 
windows  and  threw  up  the  shades.  The 
fire-escape  was  empty.  He  went  back  to 
the  telephone.  It  was  barely  possible  that 
she  had  come  up  from  the  room  below. 
That  would  be  220. 

"Is  the  lady  still  in  room  two  twenty?  . . . 

138 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Oh,  never  mind  the  name.  Is  she  still 
there?  .  .  .  She  isn't?  Gave  up  the  key  a 
moment  ago?  . . .  No,  there  isn't  any  trouble. 
She  came  from  the  stalled  train  .  .  .  She  said 
she  would  not  return?  Thanks." 

A  blind  alley.  He  couldn't  solve  the 
riddle  at  all.  And  because  he  couldn't 
solve  it  he  sensed  danger,  a  danger  which 
ran  around  him  in  a  circle. 

He  glanced  up  at  the  bird  on  the  curtain- 
pole.  Malachi  had  finished  his  dinner  and 
was  polishing  his  beak. 

"Malachi,  they've  got  me  guessing!" 

"Chup!"  said  the  little  green  bird,  spread- 
ing out  his  clipped  wing.  It  was  warm 
and  cozy  up  there  near  the  ceiling.  He 
loved  window-curtain  poles.  "Mat,  you 
lubber,  where's  my  tobacco?" 

That  phrase!  It  seemed  to  Mathison 
that  a  hand  had  reached  out  and  caught 
him  by  the  throat.  Bob !  The  dear,  absent- 
minded  Hallowell!  How  often  had  he 
teased  him  by  putting  his  tobacco-canister 
on  the  other  end  of  the  table!  Bob,  blind 
if  you  stirred  anything  on  his  end  of  the 
table  from  its  accustomed  place,  would 
start  hunting  about  the  room,  swearing 
good-naturedly. 

139 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Mathison  began  to  pace  the  room.  The 
infernal  beauty  of  her!  Negative  for  good 
and  positive  for  evil;  somehow  it  hurt  him. 
He  felt  outraged  that  God  should  give  all 
these  lovely  attributes  to  a  daughter  of 
Beelzebub. 

Down-stairs,  the  clerk  went  into  the  man- 
ager's office. 

"I  tell  you  something  queer  is  going  on 
in  this  hotel." 

"What  now?" 

"The  Lord  Mayor  of  London  makes 
waiters  signal  on  his  door  before  he'll  let 
them  in.  Then  he  begins  asking  questions 
about  the  people  on  either  side  of  him.  To 
cap  the  climax,  he  asked  about  the  woman 
who  had  her  head  cut  off  in  1793." 

"What?  Oh  yes,  I  see;  those  names  on 
the  register.  Well?" 

"  Something  fishy .  The  woman  just  sur- 
rendered her  key  and  waltzed  out." 

"Gone?" 

"With  last  year's  cabbages." 

"Maybe  it's  an  elopement,"  suggested 
the  manager,  hopefully.  Elopements  were 
first-rate  advertisements. 

"Nix  on  the  elopement.  The  real  article 
gets  married  before  they  come  to  a  hotel 

140 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

like  the  Watkins.  She  went  up  to  the  room 
I  gave  her  and  came  down  again.  No  com- 
plaints. Just  surrendered  the  key  and 
faded." 

"  Didn't  ask  any  questions  about  the 
man?" 

"  Nope.  There's  where  the  mystery  comes 
in.  Mind,  we'll  have  a  robbery  or  a  murder 
on  our  hands  before  morning." 

"Piffle!  If  the  woman  is  gone  for  good 
we  can't  risk  meddling  with  this  Lord 
Mayor  chap.  I'm  not  courting  suits  for 
damages  these  days;  not  me.  You've  been 
going  to  the  movies  too  much.  Anyhow, 
she  paid  five  for  the  room.  It's  none  of  our 
business  if  she  doesn't  sleep  in  it." 

"All  right.  Only,  don't  jump  on  me  if 
anything  happens." 

"Tell  your  troubles  to  the  house  detec- 
tive. That's  what  he's  here  for." 

The  clerk  acted  on  this  advice  at  once. 
"Michaels,"  he  said,  "you  take  this  key 
and  look  around  room  two  twenty.  See  if 
the  woman  took  or  left  anything.  There's 
a  queer  game  going  on  here  to-night." 

The  house  detective  returned  shortly. 
He  doubted  if  any  one  had  been  in  room 
220  at  aU. 

141 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

" Better  stick  around,  anyhow." 

"All  right." 

At  the  police-station  the  night  captain 
rocked  in  his  swivel-chair  and  chewed  his 
cigar.  There  had  recurred  to  his  mind  an 
old  phrase,  which  applied  to  the  crook  as 
well  as  to  the  honest  man,  "He  travels 
fastest  who  travels  alone."  Well,  so  long 
as  it  was  fish  to  his  net,  he  had  no  right  to 
complain.  On  his  desk  lay  a  stack  of  those 
sinister  handbills  which  the  police  send 
hither  and  thither  across  the  continent 
under  the  caption  "Wanted."  From  time 
to  time  he  referred  to  a  letter  which  he  had 
just  received  by  messenger.  A  fall-down 
on  the  divvy,  and  the  pal  blows  the  game. 
But  a  thousand  dollars,  a  real  bank-roll,  was 
worth  trying  for  these  hard  times.  All  he 
had  to  do  was  to  call  up  the  Watkins.  If 
there  was  anything  to  the  information,  the 
hotel  clerk  would  be  able  to  tell.  He  drew 
the  telephone  toward  him. 

"This  the  Watkins?  .  .  .  Police-station 
talking.  Man  by  the  name  of  Richard 
Whittington  registered?  .  .  .  He  is?  Good! 
Listen  to  me.  Describe  him."  The  cap- 
tain smoothed  out  a  handbill  and  kept  his 
eye  on  it  obliquely.  "All  right.  Tall, 

142 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

very  dark,  good-looking,  blue  eyes,  smooth, 
no  beard.  Yes,  that  sounds  like  him  .  .  . 
'Black'  Ellison,  wanted  in  San  Francisco 
for  diamond  robbery  and  assault.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  woman?  Gone?  That's  tough.  She 
may  have  taken  the  swag.  Well,  it  can't 
be  helped.  Get  the  man  down-stairs  to  the 
private  office.  I'll  send  Murphy  over  in 
fifteen  minutes.  Better  call  in  a  patrolman. 
This  man  Ellison  is  a  strong-arm,  for  all 
his  good  looks." 

Up  in  room  320  Mathison  found  it  impos- 
sible to  keep  that  lovely  face  out  of  his 
thoughts.  Something  was  wrong  with  the 
world.  If  ever  he  had  looked  into  a  counte- 
nance upon  which  was  written  honesty  .  .  . 

"The  voice!"  he  cried,  stopping  suddenly. 
"The  voice!  That's  the  thing  that's  been 
hammering  in  the  back  of  my  head.  I've 
heard  that  voice  before.  Where?  How?" 
He  rumpled  his  hair.  "Where  have  I  heard 
her  voice?" 

He  had  heard  her  laugh  that  night  when 
she  had  come  on  deck  in  the  Chinese  cos- 
tume. But  the  speaking  voice!  Where 
had  he  heard  that? 

Malachi,  sensing  his  master's  agitation, 
sidled  back  and  forth  along  the  curtain- 

143 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

pole,  grumbling  as  his  feet  came  into  con- 
tact with  the  cold  brass  rings. 

By  and  by  Mathison  saw  the  paper  lady 
on  the  floor;  saw  it  with  eyes  busy  with 
introspection.  He  stooped;  the  act  was 
purely  mechanical.  He  went  on  with  his 
pacing.  He  folded  and  refolded  the  slip 
of  paper  many  times  and  at  length  stowed 
it  away  in  a  pocket,  without  having  glanced 
at  it  once,  without  recalling  his  desire  to 
meet  her,  if  she  happened  to  be  in  New 
York  when  he  arrived  there. 

He  heard  a  sound.  It  came  from  the 
window.  He  wheeled  quickly,  his  hand 
going  into  his  pocket  as  he  turned.  He  had 
almost  forgotten! 

Tap-tap-tap! 

Dimly  he  saw  a  woman's  face  against 
the  pane.  She  had  comeback!  The  monu- 
mental nerve  of  her!  On  the  way  to  the 
window  he  formed  his  plan  of  action.  He 
would  give  her  all  the  rope  she  wanted;  he 
would  act  as  if  he  had  never  seen  her  be- 
fore, play  her  as  a  fisherman  plays  a  trout. 
She  had  warned  him,  and  he  would  not  ig- 
nore her  warning.  He  ran  to  the  window, 
unlocked  it,  and  threw  it  up. 

The  woman  stumbled  into  the  room,  the 

144 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

expression  on  her  face  one  of  great  terror. 
Hair  like  spun  molasses,  sparkling  with 
melting  snowflakes,  skin  like  Carrara  mar- 
ble, with  an  odd  little  mole  at  the  corner  of 
her  mouth,  and  eyes  as  purple  as  Manila 
Bay  at  sunset.  From  her  shoulders  hung 
a  sable  coat  worth  a  king's  ransom.  Mathi- 
son  raised  her  to  her  feet.  "What  is  it? 
What's  the  trouble?"  he  asked,  pulling 
forward  a  chair.  Terrified.  Had  they  dis- 
covered what  she  had  done  and  had  she 
flown  to  him  for  protection?  "Beware  of 
me!"  she  had  said. 

She  sank  into  the  chair  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  ungloved  hands,  rocking  her 
body  and  moaning  slightly. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  It  took  some 
effort  to  keep  the  ironical  out  of  his  voice. 
What  a  queer  little  mole!  he  thought.  He 
hadn't  noticed  it  before. 

She  let  her  hands  fall.  "I'm  in  the  most 
horribly  embarrassing  situation,"  she  pant- 
ed. She  clasped  her  hands  on  her  knees  and 
the  fingers  began  to  snarl  and  twist,  as  they 
will  when  a  body  is  under  great  mental 
stress.  "You  won't  mind  if  I  stay  here 
a  few  minutes?" 

"Not  in  the  least,  provided  you  give  me 

145 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

an  idea  what's  happened  to  drive  you  into 
this  room."  Mathison  put  both  hands 
into  the  side-pockets  of  his  coat. 

"  Couldn't  it  be  possible  to  stay  without 
explaining?"  she  pleaded. 

Not  a  sign  that  she  had  been  in  this  room 
less  than  half  an  hour  gone.  What  was 
her  game?  Mathison,  from  the  ironical 
spirit,  passed  into  one  of  bewilderment. 
Her  voice  wasn't  quite  the  same,  either;  it 
was  higher,  thinner.  He  was  giving  her  rope, 
but  so  far  she  wasn't  making  any  especial 
effort  to  gather  it  in.  Very  well ;  he  would 
continue  to  play  up  to  her  lead  and  see  where 
it  led.  But  stretch  his  imagination  to  its 
fullest,  he  could  not  figure  out  what  her 
game  was. 

He  answered  her  query.  "  Supposing 
you  were  found  here?  I  don't  object,  mind 
you;  only,  I'd  like  to  know  how  to  act^should 
occasion  arise." 

"I  ...  I  don't  know  how  to  begin!  It 
will  sound  so  silly  and  futile!"  she  faltered. 
Her  gaze  roved  rather  wildly  about.  "My 
husband  ...  he  has  the  most  violent  temper 
and  is  most  insanely  jealous.  Somehow  he 
learned  I  was  here — in  the  restaurant.  I 
saw  him  as  he  entered  the  main  entrance. 

146 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

I  tried  to  slip  out  at  the  side  .  .  .  but  I  was 
not  quick  enough.  By  this  time  he  will 
have  had  the  whole  hotel  by  the  ears.  Oh, 
it  is  degrading — shameful!"  The  woman 
turned  her  head  against  her  shoulder  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Mathison  noted  the  plain 
gold  band  among  the  gems  on  her  fingers. 
"I  haven't  done  anything  wrong.  I  like 
amusement;  I  like  clothes.  ...  I  can't  stand 
it  much  longer!  .  .  .  He  keeps  me  shut  up 
all  the  time.  What's  the  good  of  clothes 
if  you  can't  wear  them?  I  can't  go  any- 
where, I  can't  do  anything!  I  wish  I  were 
dead!" 

Maddening!  He  wanted  to  take  hold  of 
her  and  shake  her.  But  he  said,  soothing- 
ly: "You  don't  wish  that.  You  ought  not 
to  have  run  away." 

"I  know,  but  I  couldn't  stand  a  scene 
among  all  those  people.  I  see  now  I've 
only  made  it  worse  by  running!  ...  I  got 
into  the  parlor  somehow.  Then  I  saw  the 
fire-escape.  I  stepped  out  and  closed  the 
window,  but  I  found  I  didn't  dare  drop 
twelve  feet  or  more  to  the  sidewalk." 

Mathison  nodded.  There  was  nothing 
else  to  do. 

"And   I   made   the  fire-escape  just  in 

147 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

time.  He  came  storming  into  the  parlor, 
followed  by  a  clerk  and  a  bellboy.  The 
shame  of  it!  None  of  them  thought  to  look 
out.  I'd  have  been  frozen  but  for  this 
coat.  Then  it  came  to  me — I  was  so  des- 
perate!— that  I  might  find  a  window  open 
if  I  climbed  up  ...  And  I  saw  you.  I 
shaVt  bother  you  more  than  ten  minutes 
.  .  .  Just  enough  time  to  get  my  nerves 
steadied.  If  he  doesn't  find  me  soon  he'll 
go  home.  I  can  stand  a  scene  there. " 

"Where's  the  other  man?  A  fine  chap,  to 
leave  you  in  the  lurch  like  this!"  cried 
Mathison,  indignantly. 

Her  eyes  opened;  they  expressed  dismay. 
"Oh,  but  I  wasn't  with  any  one!" 

"Alone?  Good  Lord!  why  did  you  run 
away?" 

"He  would  have  made  a  scene  just  the 
same.  He  would  always  swear  that  there 
was  another  man  somewhere.  I  suppose 
he'll  kill  me  some  day.  I  ought  not  to  have 
run;  but  I  simply  could  not  stand  a  scene 
in  the  restaurant!"  She  hunted  about  for 
a  handkerchief,  found  one,  and  rubbed  her 
cold  little  nose  with  it.  "It  sounds  so 
silly,  doesn't  it?  I  don't  know  what  to 
do!" 

148 


,THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"Stay  as  long  as  you  like.  Shall  I  send 
for  a  cup  of  coffee?  You  must  be  frozen." 

"No,  no!  You  mustn't  take  the  least 
trouble.  I'm  sorry.  I  just  opened  the 
window  and  stepped  inside.  I  really  had 
only  one  idea — to  escape." 

"Suppose  you  describe  your  husband. 
I'll  call  up  the  office  and  see  if  he  has  gone." 

"Good  Heavens,  no!"  her  terror  return- 
ing. "I  am  really  lost  if  it  should  become 
known  that  I  had  taken  a  risk  such  as  this. 
Besides,  it  might  get  you  into  trouble. 
Please  no !  Just  a  few  minutes — ten — fifteen. 
He'll  go  when  he  can't  find  me.  I'll  return 
to  the  parlor  by  the  way  I  came." 

Why  didn't  she  take  out  a  revolver,  cover 
him  in  the  conventional  style,  and  open 
the  door  for  her  friends  in  the  hall?  Or  had 
she  noticed  that  his  right  hand  was  still  in 
the  pocket  of  his  coat?  As  a  test  he  with- 
drew the  hand.  She  did  not  appear  to 
observe  the  movement.  The  word  "baf- 
fled "  had  always  appealed  to  him  as  blood- 
and-thunder  stuff;  but  now  he  began  to 
understand  that  it  was  a  serious  and  sub- 
stantial condition  of  the  mind. 

"'You're  welcome,  any  way  you  desire  it. 
I'll  tell  you  what.  I'll  write  a  letter  I  had 

149 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

in  mind.  It  will  serve  to  relieve  you  of 
your  embarrassment.  It  certainly  will  re- 
lieve mine." 

He  opened  one  of  the  kit-bags  and  dug 
out  his  letter-portfolio.  He  cleared  a  space 
on  the  table  and  sat  down,  facing  the  young 
woman,  though  apparently  giving  her  no 
more  attention.  He  started  the  letter, 
paused,  tore  up  what  he  had  written,  and 
tossed  the  bits  to  the  floor.  The  next  at- 
tempt seemed  to  be  successful,  for  he  wrote 
several  pages,  finally  sealing  it  in  an  envelope. 
Had  the  woman  been  able  to  read  the  con- 
tents of  this  letter  she  would  have  been  pro- 
foundly astonished.  It  was  a  minute  de- 
scription of  her,  from  the  tortoise-shell  comb 
in  her  hah-  to  the  white  sandals  on  her  feet. 

He  re-read  the  document ;  and  as  he  came 
to  the  end  of  it  he  missed  something,  an 
essential  which  impressed  him  previously. 
Covertly  he  ran  his  glance  over  her  again. 
Something  was  gone,  but  he  could  not  tell 
what  it  was. 

For  all  that  she  did  not  appear  to  be  do- 
ing so,  he  knew  that  not  a  single  move  he 
made  escaped  her.  Often  he  gazed  at  the 
kit-bags,  but  never  did  he  let  his  glance 
stray  anywhere  near  the  waste-basket. 

150 


He  wondered.  Supposing  the  two  visita- 
tions, the  second  ignoring  the  first  as  though 
it  had  never  happened — supposing  they  had 
been  launched  for  the  express  purpose  of 
baffling  and  bewildering  him,  eventually 
causing  him  to  lower  his  guard?  Here  at 
last  was  a  solution  that  had  a  grain  of  sense. 

Mathison  rose  and  filled  his  pipe. 

"You  won't  mind  if  I  smoke  and  jog 
about  a  bit?  I'm  restless.  I've  had  a  long 
attack  of  insomnia." 

"Please  pay  no  attention  to  me." 

After  a  glance  at  his  watch  he  fell  to  pa- 
cing once  more.  But  he  paced  in  a  peculiar 
manner — up  and  down  the  corridor  wall. 
That  is  to  say,  he  had  the  window  and 
The  Yellow  Typhoon  always  under  covert 
observation. 

As  for  the  woman,  she  now  relaxed.  Her 
lovely  hands  lay  limply  on  her  knees  and 
her  eyes  were  closed — or  seemed  to  be.  But 
each  time  the  elevator  door  slammed  she 
started  nervously.  Good  acting,  Mathison 
admitted.  The  jealous  husband !  He  fought 
the  desire  to  walk  over  to  her,  to  smother 
her  with  the  storm  of  words  burning  his 
tongue.  <  There  must  be  an  overt  act  on 
her  part  first.  The  infernal  beauty  of  her! 

151 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Mat,  you  lubber!" 

Even  Mathison  received  a  shock.  He 
had  forgotten  Malachi.  The  woman  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  whirled  about,  expecting  to 
see  some  one  behind  her  chair.  She  saw 
nothing.  Bewildered,  her  gaze  came  back 
to  Mathison,  who  pointed  to  the  curtain- 
pole. 

"A  little  parrot!"  She  sank  back  into 
the  chair  weakly.  "I  thought  some  one 
was  behind  me!" 

"I  had  forgotten  him." 

"Chupl    Chota  Malachi!" 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"That's  Hindustani.  He's  telling  me  to 
be  still  and  that  he  is  a  little  bird." 

"A  Hindu  parrot!"  The  woman  gazed 
at  the  bird,  frankly  interested.  "What  a 
funny  little  bird!  You  have  traveled  far?" 

"Half -way  around  the  world.  My  train 
was  stalled  to-night;  so  Malachi  and  I  con- 
cluded to  spend  the  night  in  peace  and 
quiet.  I  rather  wanted  to  hear  him  talk. 
Boats  and  trains  bother  him,  and  he  hasn't 
spoken  for  days." 

"A  parrot!" 

"A  parrakeet,"  he  corrected. 

"I  never  knew  that  men  carried  them} 

152 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

about.  I  thought  it  was  always  fussy  old 
maids." 

"I'm  a  deep-sea  sailor;  and  we  sailors  are 
always  lugging  around  pets  for  mascots.  I 
have  lived  in  the  Orient  for  six  years."  He 
spoke  with  engaging  frankness.  Why  not? 
Was  there  anything  concerning  John  Mathi- 
son  that  she  did  not  know? 

"What  do  you  caU  him?" 

"Malachi." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"You  have  me  there.  It  was  the  name  of 
an  elephant  in  one  of  Kipling's  yarns." 

"I  see.  .  .  .  What's  that?"  she  broke  off. 

Mathison  stood  perfectly  still,  chin  up, 
eyes  alert.  The  elevator  door  had  slammed 
with  unusual  violence.  This  sound  was 
followed  by  another — hurrying  feet.  Then 
came  a  blow  of  a  fist  on  the  panel  of  the 
door. 

"What's  wanted?"  demanded  Mathison, 
coldly 

"Open  the  door!"  • 

"Who  is  it  and  what  is  wanted?" 

"Open,  or  we'll  break  in!" 

The  woman  flew  to  the  window.  While 
she  was  lifting  it  Mathison  spoke  to  her. 

"You  are  leaving?"  broadly  ironical. 

11  153 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"My  husband!  .  .  .  He  will  kiU  me!" 

"  Which  husband?  Hallowell,  Graham, 
Morris?" 

She  sent  him  a  glance  that  radiated  ven- 
om. It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  suddenly 
poisoned  the  air. 

"The  Yellow  Typhoon!  And  you  sup- 
posed I  would  not  recognize  you,  never 
having  seen  you?  I  don't  know  what  your 
game  was  in  warning  me.  No  matter. 
Morgan  was  right.  He  said  you  were  a 
beautiful  mirage  at  the  mouth  of  hell." 

"Open  the  door!"  came  from  the  hall. 

The  woman  stepped  through  the  window, 
sent  it  rattling  to  the  sill;  and  that  was  the 
last  Mathison  saw  of  her  for  many  hours. 
He  walked  to  the  door. 

"I  will  open  the  door  only  upon  one  con- 
dition— that  you  inform  me  who  it  is  and 
what  is  wanted  of  me,"  he  declared,  still 
in  level  tones. 

"It's  the  house  detective,  and  you're 
wanted,  me  Lord  Mayor  of  London!" 

Mathison  thought  rapidly.  He  attacked 
the  affair  from  all  angles.  The  house  de- 
tective! 

Against  the  door  came  the  thud  of  a 
human  body. 

154 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Never  mind  breaking  in  the  door," 
Mathison  called.  "Til  open  it." 

He  did  so ;  and  four  men  came  rushing  in — 
the  house  detective,  the  manager,  the  in- 
quisitive clerk,  and  a  policeman. 
*  "The  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  huh?" 
bellowed  the  house  detective.  He  carried 
a  revolver.  "Put  up  your  hands!"  Mathi- 
son obeyed  promptly.  Michaels  ran  his 
hand  over  Mathison's  pockets  and  gave  a 
cry  of  delight  as  he  brought  forth  the  heavy 
Colt  automatic.  "A  gat!  I  thought  I'd 
find  one." 

"Now  then,"  said  Mathison,  still  able 
to  hold  his  rage  in  check,  "be  so  good  as 
to  explain  what  the  devil  all  this  means?" 

"We'll  explain  that  in  the  office." 

"We'll  explain  it  here  and  now,  or  you'll 
have  to  carry  me.  And  in  that  event  I  can 
promise  you  some  excitement." 
.  "All  right,  me  lud.  Word  comes  from 
the  police  headquarters  to  hold  you  and 
hold  you  good.  You're  'Black'  Ellison, 
and  there's  a  thousand  iron  boys  waiting 
to  be  paid  over  on  your  delivery.  We'll 
carry  you,  if  you  say  so." 

So  that  was  it!  Mathison  saw  the  whole 
thing  in  a  flash.  Clever,  clever  beyond 

155 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

anything  he  had  imagined.  To  get  him 
out  of  the  room  in  a  perfectly  logical  way, 
and  then  search  it.  He  saw  clearly  that 
his  own  mysterious  actions  would  be  held 
against  him.  Caught!  He  couldn't  help 
admiring  the  method.  The  woman  to  keep 
him  interested  and  puzzled  until  they  were 
ready  to  fire  the  train. 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  we  can't  remain 
here?  You've  got  to  prove  that  I'm  the 
man  you  want." 

"Orders  are  to  take  you  down  to  the  pri- 
vate office,"  said  the  policeman. 

"No  objection  to  my  taking  my  things 
along?" 

"Your  things,  bo,  will  stay  right  where 
they  are  until  Murphy  looks  them  over." 

"How  am  I  to  know  that  no  one  will 
enter  this  room  while  I'm  down-stairs?" 

"I  can  promise  you  that,"  said  the  man- 
ager. 

"Don't  open  the  window.  There's  a 
little  bird  up  there  on  the  curtain-pole; 
and  he  might  fly  out  or  try  to." 

The  visitors  stared  at  Malachi  inter- 
estedly. 

"He  sha'n't  be  touched,"  declared  the 
manager,  a  fit  of  trembling  seizing  him.  If 

156 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

this  turned  out  wrong  and  the  victim  came 
back  with  a  suit  of  damages!  "It's  no  fault 
of  the  hotel,  sir.  The  order  comes  from  the 
police." 

A  few  words,  the  exhibition  of  a  paper  or 
two,  and  Mathison  knew  that  the  tide  would 
have  turned  immediately  in  his  favor.  But 
this  step  he  stubbornly  refused  to  take. 
The  spirit  of  the  gambler  who  scorns  to 
hedge.  Upon  leaving  the  security  of  the 
train  he  had  laid  his  offerings  at  the  feet 
of  Chance.  He  would  follow  through.  At 
any  rate,  he  determined  not  to  disclose  his 
identity  until  he  had  to. 

"Very  weU;  I'll  go  with  you.  But  I'll 
put  the  bird  back  in  his  cage  if  you  don't 
mind." 

After  a  bit  of  coaxing  Malachi  came  down 
from  his  perch  and  Mathison  bundled  him 
into  the  cage,  which  he  set  beside  the  radia- 
tor. He  then  stepped  into  the  corridor. 
But  he  waited  to  see  if  the  manager  locked 
the  door.  The  manager  did  more  than  that. 
He  gave  the  key  to  Mathison,  who  marched 
over  to  the  elevator  and  pressed  the  button. 

"A  cool  one,"  whispered  the  excited  clerk. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  there  was  something  off- 
color?" 

157 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

The  manager  made  a  gesture.  He  wasn't 
at  all  happy.  People  would  have  smiled 
over  an  elopement;  but  the  arrest  of  a 
dangerous  criminal  always  reacted  against 
the  hotel.  "You  need  not  worry  about 
your  belongings,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mathison. 

"I'm  not  worrying.  I'm  going  to  leave 
that  for  you  to  do." 

"Bluff  won't  get  you  anywhere,"  growled 
the  house  detective. 

"It  seems  to  have  landed  you  a  soft 
job,"  countered  Mathison,  smiling  as  he 
entered  the  elevator. 

The  clerk  grinned.  He  and  the  house 
detective  were  not  exactly  friendly. 

Once  in  the  manager's  private  office, 
Mathison  coolly  appropriated  the  mana- 
gerial chair.  He  kept  his  eye  on  the  desk 
clock  and  appeared  oblivious  to  the  low 
murmurings  behind  his  back.  Five  minutes 
— ten — fifteen;  he  could  feel  the  sweat  rising 
at  the  roots  of  his  hair.  Trapped !  They  had 
come  at  him  from  an  original  angle,  and  the 
only  counter  for  it  was  the  disclosure  of  his 
hand.  No  doubt  the  woman  was  already  at 
work.  If  they  took  him  to  the  police-station 
for  the  night;  if  the  maid  cleaned  out  the 
room  thoroughly  in  the  morning! 

158 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Got  him,  I  see!"  cried  a  cheery  voice 
from  the  doorway. 

Mathison  turned.  He  saw  a  small,  brisk 
Irishman,  with  a  humorous  mouth  and  a 
pair  of  keenly  intelligent  eyes.  He  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief .  Here  was  some  one  who  fooked 
as  if  he  had  the  gift  of  reason.  Pray  God 
that  he  had! 

" Stand  up!" 

Mathison  obeyed. 

"Humph!     Got  anything  to  say?" 

"No;  except  if  you'll  come  to  the  room 
with  me  I'll  give  you  the  stuff.  I  know 
when  I'm  beaten." 

"Who's  this  woman,  Manon  Roland?" 

"Roland?    Don't  know  anybody  by  that 


name." 


"The  woman  you  were  asking  questions 
about  over  the  'phone." 

"So  her  name  was  Roland!" 

"Ah1  right;  we'll  come  back  to  her  again. 
You  used  to  travel  alone.  Why  did  you 
hook  up?  Pals  always  blow." 

"No  man  is  perfect.  Come  to  my  room 
and  I'll  turn  the  stuff  over  to  you."  Mathi- 
son wondered  what  it  was  he  had  stolen. 
"You'll  never  find  it  without  my  help.  You 
and  I  alone.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

159 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

'Til  look  you  over  first." 

"  Here's  his  gat,  Murphy,"  said  the  house 
detective. 

Murphy  thrust  the  automatic  in  his 
pocket  without  comment.  He  ran  his  keen 
glance  over  the  prisoner.  "Hold  out  your 
hands,  fingers  spread;  I  want  to  look  at 
them.  That's  the  way.  Now  turn  your 
face  toward  the  light.  Uh-huh.  You  ad- 
mit you  are  'Black'  Ellison?" 

"Yes."  Anything  to  get  back  into  the 
room! 

"All  right.  I'll  go  up  with  you  for  the 
swag.  But  walk  carefully.  I'm  excitable 
by  nature." 

"Better  take  me  along,"  urged  the  house 
detective.  He  was  anxious  to  be  in  the 
newspapers  on  the  morrow. 

"You  folks  stay  right  where  you  are, 
I'm  running  this.  Step  along,  Mr.  Ellison." 

Murphy  pushed  Mathison  toward  the 
door.  The  two  crossed  the  lobby  to  the 
elevator  and  were  shot  up  to  the  third 
floor. 

"I'll  be  right  at  your  elbow,  so  play  it 
straight.  There's  something  about  your 
hurry  that  interests  me,  bo." 

Mathison  rushed  to  the  door,  unlocked 

160 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

it  and  pushed  it  in  violently.  He  sent  a 
lightning  glance  about  the  room  and  leaned 
dizzily  against  the  door-jamb. 

"For  the  love  o'  Mike,  they  never  told 
me  you'd  put  up  a  scrap  like  this!" 

"I  didn't  put  up  any  scrap,"  said  Mathi- 
son,  dully. 

"  What's  hit  this  room,  then — an  earth- 
quake?" 

"A  typhoon." 

Malachi  was  all  right,  but  the  waste- 
basket  was  empty. 


CHAPTER  X 

MATHISON  accepted  the  blow  quietly. 
He  had  the  air  of  a  spent  athlete, 
but  that  was  all.  He  was  a  good  loser. 
To  have  rushed  about,  sending  out  alarms, 
advising  the  Secret  Service,  all  would  have 
been  a  waste  of  time.  The  damage  was 
complete,  irremediable.  Beaten — that  was 
the  word;  he  knew  it. 

Havoc!  The  bedding  was  strewn  across 
the  floor,  mattress  and  bolster;  the  pillows 
had  been  shaken  from  their  cases.  All  the 
drawers  in  the  bureau  and  commode  had 
been  pulled  out  and  their  paper  linings 
tossed  about.  The  two  kit-bags  had  been 
slashed  completely  across  and  their  entire 
contents  scattered.  Even  the  pockets  of 
the  coats  and  trousers  had  been  turned 
inside  out.  Nothing  had  escaped. 

Beaten!  Until  to-night  he  had  had  a 
perfect  defense.  He  tried  to  reach  back  to 
analyze  the  cause  which  had  emboldened 

162 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

him  to  leave  the  security  of  the  car,  but 
it  wasn't  reachable.  The  want  of  sleep? 
The  craving  for  exercise?  Mere  bewilder- 
ment? He  couldn't  solve  it;  just  one  of 
those  moves  which  continue  to  render 
human  beings  fallible.  Why  hadn't  he  left 
the  envelope  in  the  safe?  What  idiocy  had 
inveigled  him  to  carry  it  to  his  room? 
A  lone  hand.  He  had  tried  the  superhuman. 
One  trained  mind  against  three  or  four 
trained  minds,  and  the  odds  had  been  too 
great.  He  had  left  the  realm  of  absolute 
mathematics  for  the  impositive,  chance, 
with  this  tragic  result. 

With  infinite  care  he  had  contrived  a 
web;  so  had  they.  They  had  broken  through 
his,  and  now  he  found  himself  in  theirs. 
Flight.  They  would  be  gone  like  the  winds. 
They  had  done  something  more  than  beaten 
him  at  the  game;  they  had  shattered  his 
self-confidence.  Doubt ;  all  his  future  moves 
would  be  under  the  shadow  of  doubt. 
Should  he  do  this,  or  should  he  do  that,  or 
should  he  ask  advice?  The  commander 
of  a  destroyer  should  have  supreme  confi- 
dence in  himself;  and  at  present  it  did  not 
look  as  if  John  Mathison  would  go  abroad 
with  that.  He  might  re-establish  this  qual- 

163 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

ity,  but  only  by  passing  successfully  through 
some  vital  conflict. 

Hallowell!  Old  Bob  Hallowell!  It  was  as 
if  he  had  broken  faith  with  his  friend. 

"Mat!  .  .  .  Malachi!" 

Thunderstruck,  Mathison  jumped  to  his 
feet,  while  Murphy,  the  detective,  looked 
wildly  about  for  the  third  man.  Mathison 
seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"For  God's  sake,  hush!  Be  still!  It's  that 
little  green  bird." 

"Mat!  .  .  .  Malachi!"  It  was  the  same 
wailing  accent  of  that  dreadful  night  in 
Manila.  It  was  Hallowell  himself  speak- 
ing! 

Malachi,  tremendously  agitated,  was 
climbing  up  to  his  swing  and  down  to  his 
perch.  The  incredible  had  happened.  Sug- 
gestion. Once  before  the  bird  had  wit- 
nessed a  confusion  in  the  making,  something 
like  this. 

"Mat!  .  .  .  Malachi!"  he  wailed. 

Then  came  a  jumble  of  phrases  in  poly- 
glot, sailors'  oaths,  scraps  of  Hindustani 
and  Spanish.  But  after  a  few  minutes  he 
began  to  mutter  in  parrakeetese.  That 
peculiar  cell  in  Malachi 's  head  had  closed 
up  again.  Mathison  urged  and  coaxed  in 

164 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

vain.  Malachi  rolled  his  yellow  eyes  and 
continued  to  mutter.  The  irony  of  it  lay 
in  the  fact  that  his  fear  had  subsided. 
Wasn't  this  his  master? 

"Well,  I — be — damn!"  exploded  Murphy. 
"A  talking  parrot!  Say" — wrathfully — 
"why  did  you  give  me  that  bunk  about 
being  Ellison?" 

"  Quickest  way  I  could  get  back  to  this 
room.  All  this  was  accomplished  while  they 
were  holding  me  down-stairs." 

"A  frame-up!  I  knew  the  moment  you 
held  out  your  hands  that  you  weren't 
Ellison.  The  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  is 
missing.  Look  at  those  grips!  Bo,  what 
did  you  have?" 

"They  got  it." 

"All  right.  Come  on.  I'll  send  out  a 
general  alarm.  We'll  run  a  comb  over  the 
town.  Off  your  train,  too,  I'll  gamble. 
Get  a  move  on!" 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Murphy;  but  it  wouldn't  do 
a  bit  of  good.  The  damage  is  done.  And  ten 
to  one  they've  already  boarded  a  freight." 

"Going  to  let  'em  put  it  over  without  a 
kick?" 

The  thing  they  took  was  valuable  only 
so  long  as  it  remained  in  my  possession. 

165 


THE   YELLOW    TYPHOON 

The  Chinese  have  a  saying — you  can't  pour 
water  into  a  shattered  jar." 

"Are  you  trying  to  get  my  goat?" 

"No.    I'm  stating  bald  facts." 

"You're  a  queer  kind  of  a  guy.  What 
was  it,  a  diamond  toothpick?"  Murphy 
began  to  wander  around  the  room.  "A 
frame-up,  and  a  bully  one.  The  only  way 
they  could  get  you  out  of  this  room  for  a 
while  until  your  identity  was  established. 
Why  didn't  you  set  up  a  holler?" 

Mathison  shook  his  head  and  sat  down. 
"Am  I  your  prisoner?" 

"Prisoner  my  eye!  Only,  I'm  naturally 
a  curious  cuss.  Crook  stuff?" 

"Not  in  the  sense  you  mean." 

"Would  it  do  any  good  to  arrest  them?" 

"You  couldn't  arrest  them." 

"The  heU  I  couldn't!  What  are  they, 
pro-Germans  from  that  dear  Chicago?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I'U  nose  about." 

"It  won't  do  you  any  good." 

"You  don't  know  this  Roland  woman?" 

"Never  saw  her  before  in  my  life." 

'Then  you  saw  her?"  quickly. 

"Go  ahead  and  see  what  you  can  find," 
said  Mathison,  curtly. 

166 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

The  infernal  beauty  of  her!  It  would 
haunt  him  as  long  as  he  lived.  The  strength 
of  those  beautiful  hands!  This  havoc  all  in- 
side of  an  hour!  Mathison  lighted  his  pipe. 

Murphy  did  not  touch  anything.  He 
seemed  to  be  thinking  rather  than  observ- 
ing. By  and  by  he  went  to  the  window, 
opened  it,  and  stepped  outside.  He  was 
absent  perhaps  ten  minutes.  He  came 
back,  stamped  the  snow  from  his  shoes,  and 
put  away  the  pocket-lamp. 

"Find  anything?" 

"You're  not  much  on  the  gab-fesfc,  are 
you?"  said  Murphy,  amiably.  "Two 
women!  One  of  'em  wore  arctics  and  the 
other  sandals;  and  the  one  with  the  sandals 
wrecked  the  place !  Bo,  was  it  love-letters — 
divorce  stuff?  Good-lookers?" 

"There  was  only  one  woman,"  wearily. 

"Two.  My  job  is  noticing  things.  When 
I  say  that  two  women  went  up  and  down  that 
fire-escape  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about." 

Mathison  shrugged.  It  wasn't  worth 
while  arguing. 

"The  woman  with  the  arctics  came  first, 
then  the  woman  with  the  sandals.  While 
the  latter  was  in  the  room  tidying  up 
things  the  other  was  hiding  behind  the  fire- 

167 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

escape  stairs.  Easy  on  a  night  like  this 
with  the  snow  high  on  the  steps.  All  in  the 
tracks  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face. 
Arctics  came  from  the  room  below;  sandals 
got  out  of  the  parlor." 

Mathison  listened  politely.  "Very  in- 
teresting; all  in  the  tracks."  He  had  de- 
termined not  to  dissent.  The  man  had  a 
right  to  his  theories;  but  it  happened  that 
John  Mathison  knew  all  the  facts. 

"Bo,  this  is  queer  business,"  said  the 
detective.  "What  you've  lost  don't  seem 
to  curl  your  hair  any.  Love-letters!  The 
fool  woman  is  always  writing  them  and  then 
bawling  to  heaven  to  get  them  back. . . .  For 
the  love  o'  Mike,  what's  this?  Is  this  coat 
yours?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  an  officer  in  the  United  States 
navy?" 

"I  am." 

"Well,  well!  Now  there's  some  reason 
to  all  these  fireworks.  War  stuff!" 

"You  might  caU  it  that." 

"Need  any  help?" 

"You  might  tell  them  in  the  office  to  send 
up  two  pairs  of  shoe-strings  and  a  leather- 
punch.  I'll  have  to  patch  up  those  bags." 

168 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Murphy  pushed  back  his  hat.  "Well, 
I'll  be  tinker-dammed!"  Then  he  laughed. 
"I'd  like  to  play  poker  with  you.  Two 
pairs  of  shoe-strings!  That'll  kill  'em  cold 
in  the  office.  They'll  think  I've  forgotten 
my  handcuffs.  War  stuff!  No  use  asking 
you  what  it  was  the  woman  took." 

"No." 

"Well,  it's  your  funeral." 

"Exactly.  And  when  you  order  the 
shoe-strings  you  might  send  out  for  an 
oak  wreath  with  a  purple  ribbon." 

"Glad  you  struck  the  town.  There 
wasn't  even  a  movie  to-night.  Bo,  I'll  give 
you  all  the  help  I  can  without  asking  ques- 
tions. I  know  a  fighting-man  when  I  see 
him.  A  fighting-sailor  with  a  talking  par- 
rot! Well,  I'll  shoot  that  order  for  the  shoe- 
strings. And  when  the  bird  began  to  talk  I 
thought  there  was  some  one  else  in  the  room !" 

"There  was,"  said  Mathison,  in  an  odd 
voice. 

"Huh?  Spirits?  You  don't  look  like  a 
man  who  would  waste  any  time  with  the 
ouija-board.  Well,  here's  for  the  shoe- 
strings and  the  punch." 

When  the  clerk  received  the  order  he 
made  the  sender  repeat  it. 

12  169 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Shoe-strings!"  he  yelled. 

"What  now?"  demanded  the  house  de- 
tective, surlily. 

"Murphy  wants  two  pairs  of  shoe-strings 
and  a  leather-punch!  I  tell  you,  the  whole 
house  has  gone  bug.  You  run  up.  Murphy's 
been  hypnotized  or  he  has  had  a  punch  of 
dope.  Here,  boy;  run  down  to  the  Mace- 
donian shoeblack  and  get  two  pairs  of  shoe- 
strings and  a  punch.  Hustle!" 

"Shoe-strings!"  Michaels  the  house  de- 
tective ran  for  the  elevator.  But  when  he 
reached  room  320  he  was  told  emphatically 
— through  the  door — to  take  his  bonehead 
down-stairs  again.  "Cahoots!"  he  mur- 
mured. And  all  the  rest  of  his  life  he  was 
going  to  hold  to  the  belief  that  Ellison  and 
Murphy  had  divided  up  the  loot. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Mathison  and  Detec- 
tive Murphy  came  down  into  the  lobby. 
Murphy  carried  the  parrot-cage.  There 
was  a  grin  on  his  face  as  he  left  the 
elevator,  but  it  vanished  as  he  neared  the 
desk. 

"My  bill,"  said  Mathison.  He  had  de- 
cided to  return  to  the  train. 

"What?"  The  poor  clerk  stared  at  Mur- 
phy for  the  key  to  this  riddle. 

170 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"The  bill,  the  bill!  Give  the  gentleman 
his  bill,  you  dub!" 

In  turning,  the  clerk  knocked  over  the 
desk-telephone.  As  he  stooped  to  recover 
it  he  bumped  his  head  against  the  comer 
of  the  cashier's  cage.  When  he  finally  pre- 
sented the  bill  he  was  a  total  wreck. 

"Was  it  ...  ?"  he  faltered. 

"No,  it  wasn't,"  snapped  Murphy. 
"We've  all  been  flimflammed." 

"But  those  names!" 

"Can't  you  recognize  Jack  Barrymore 
when  you  see  him?  He's  traveling  incog." 

"But  he  said -he  was  the  other  fellow!" 

"  WeU,  Jack  likes  his  joke." 

"I  wanted  to  get  back  to  my  room,"  in- 
terposed Mathison,  taking  pity  on  the  clerk's 
bewilderment.  "There's  been  a  misunder- 
standing all  round.  Keep  the  change  and 
buy  yourself  some  cigars  with  it." 

As  Mathison  and  the  detective  disap- 
peared through  the  revolving  doors  the 
clerk  turned  to  the  cashier.  "Keep  your 
eye  on  things  for  a  while.  Pm  going  out 
and  root  up  a  drink.  I  might  understand 
something  of  this  if  I  was  full  of  hootch." 

When  Mathison  and  the  detective  entered 
the  car  George  the  porter  was  moving  about 

171 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

sleepily.  "What's  de  mattah  wid  dat  hotel?" 
he  demanded,  reproachfully. 

"Too  much  excelsior,  George,  and  not 
enough  feathers." 

"Well,  I  had  de  bed  made  up,  case  yo' 
did  come  back.  .  .  .  Lan'  sakes,  what's  hap- 
pened t'  dem  satchels?" 

"The  chef  ran  amuck  with  the  cleaver," 
explained  Murphy,  owlishly.  He  turned  to 
Mathison.  "Here's  that  cannon  of  yours. 
Take  care  of  yourself.  Gee!  if  you  were  a 
crook  and  I  was  chasing  you,  what  a  lot  of 
fun  we'd  have!" 

"Thanks  for  the  compliment."  Truth- 
fully, I  had  expected  to  spend  the  night  in 
jail." 

The  porter's  ears  twitched. 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  Mathison 
vanished  behind  the  door  of  his  compart- 
ment. George  eyed  the  door  speculatively. 
Jail.  He  tiptoed  to  No.  2  and  knocked. 

"What  is  it?"  came  through  the  crack. 

"He's  come  back!"  George  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TV /T  ATHISON  undresseed  slowly.  He  was 
iVl  still  hypnotized  to  a  certain  extent 
by  the  several  amazing  events  of  the  night. 
From  the  shadowy  corners  of  the  compart- 
ment the  woman's  face  persisted  in  appear- 
ing, now  in  all  its  warm  loveliness,  now  in 
terror,  and  again  like  chiseled  marble.  It 
would  be  a  long  time  before  he  would  be  able 
to  stamp  out  completely  the  impression.  It 
did  not  seem  possible  that  any  woman  could 
be  so  lovely  outside  and  so  ugly  within.  The 
venom  in  her  glance,  just  before  she  stepped 
out  of  the  window! 

The  thought  of  Hallowell  hurt  more  than 
anything  else.  Unavenged!  Bob  would  lie 
in  his  island  grave  unavenged.  But  before 
God,  he,  John  Mathison,  would  take  a 
double  tithe  from  the  Hun.  No  mercy. 
Never  would  he  hear  the  word  Kamerad. 
Soon  the  number  on  his  free-board  would 
spell  Terror. 

173 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

He  uncovered  Malachi  and  knelt  beside 
the  cage.  "Mat!  .  .  .  Malachi!"  he  said. 
"Mat!  .  .  .  Malachi!"  But  the  only  sign 
from  the  bird  was  a  ruffling  of  the  neck  and 
topknot  feathers,  a  quick  dilation  of  his  yel- 
low eyes.  Two  or  three  minutes  earlier  in 
getting  into  that  room,  while  the  bird's 
fright  was  at  full!  No  way  to  make 
him  understand;  he  was  only  a  parrakeet, 
an  echo.  "Mat!  .  .  .  Malachi!"  It  was 
Bob  calling;  the  little  bird  was  only  an 
echo. 

Suddenly  Mathison  stood  up,  his  face 
eager.  A  real  idea!  And  it  never  would 
have  entered  his  head  but  for  the  startling 
revelation  of  what  suggestion  might  ac- 
complish. If  the  woman's  tempestuous 
actions  had  awakened  the  bird's  recollec- 
tion, what  might  a  reconstruction  of  the 
crime  do?  Men  apparently  in  desperate 
conflict,  tables  and  chairs  threshed  about, 
tumult,  cries!  How  would  these  react 
upon  Malachi's  memory? 

Of  course  no  jury  would  convict  a  man 
of  a  crime  upon  evidence  furnished  by  a 
talking  parrakeet;  but  if,  by  reconstructing 
the  tragedy,  Malachi  could  be  made  to 
repeat  the  name  Hallowell  had  called  out, 

174 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

it  would  serve  to  give  the  authorities  a 
handhold.  Trust  them  to  dig  up  the  truth 
eventually.  For  Mathison  was  obsessed 
with  the  idea  that  Hallowell  had  spoken 
a  name  for  Malachi  to  repeat. 

Sleep — the  lack  of  sleep.  They  never 
would  have  gotten  to  him  but  for  the  craving 
to  sleep.  He  had  gone  into  the  town  feel- 
ing as  keen  mentally  as  ever,  and  his  keen- 
ness had  been  only  superficial.  He  had 
sought  the  open  without  any  definite  cam- 
paign. Want  of  sleep.  His  flesh  and  bones 
had  been  crying  out  for  sleep,  and  his  brain 
stifling  the  call.  Patience.  They  had  had 
a  little  more  than  John  Mathison. 

To-night,  however,  he  would  satisfy  the 
craving.  There  would  be  no  more  sleep- 
fumes  or  pistol-shots  or  turning  door-knobs. 

By  one  o'clock  the  car  Mercutio  was  as 
silent  as  the  tomb  of  Romeo's  friend. 

Tap,  tap;  pause;  tap,  tap. 

Mathison  was  asleep,  but  as  yet  he  had 
not  conquered  that  subconscious  alertness 
of  the  mind.  The  sound,  light  as  it  was, 
awoke  him.  The  porter's  signal.  Mathi- 
son buried  his  head  deeper  into  the  pillow. 

Tap,  tap;  pause;  tap,  tap. 

"  What's  wanted?"  he  called,  irritably. 

175 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

There  was  no  answer.  The  tapping  was 
not  repeated. 

He  was  too  drunk  with  sleep  to  get  the 
real  significance.  He  turned  over  and  fell 
asleep  again  instantly.  He  came  out  of 
this  leaden  slumber  at  seven.  The  train 
was  moving,  having  made  up  two  hours  in 
the  makeshift  schedule.  The  storm  out- 
side had  lost  but  little  of  its  vigor.  He 
bathed  and  dressed  and  rang  for  the  porter. 

"Have  the  waiter  bring  me  grape-fruit, 
oatmeal,  and  coffee." 

"Yes,  suh." 

"What  time  will  we  make  New  York,  if 
this  keeps  up?" 

"About  six-thutty." 

"Did  you  rap  about  one  o'clock?" 

"No,  suh." 

"You  didn't?" 

"No,  suh.  What's  de  matter  wid  dat 
hotel?  Dey  all  comes  rampagin'  back 
befo'  yo'  did." 

"Passengers  in  number  two?" 

"Yes,  suh." 

"All  the  passengers  returned?" 

"On  de  Mercutio;  yes,  suh."  The  whites 
of  George's  eyes  began  to  show. 

As  for  that,  so  did  Mathison's.    On  board, 

176 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

when,  logically,  they  should  be  miles  and 
miles  away  by  this  hour,  by  any  means  of 
locomotion  they  could  obtain!  Here  was 
a  thundering  mystery. 

"  George,  is  there  a  lady  next  door?" 

"Yes,  suh." 

"Beautiful,  with  blonde  hair?" 

"Hain't  seen  de  lady's  face,  suh." 

"Sable  coat?" 

George  nodded.  He  pushed  back  his 
cap.  "Boss,  I  oughtn't  tj  tell  yo';  but  de 
man  in  two  is  a  Secret  Service  man,  an'  he's 
goin'  t'  jump  yo'  de  minute  we  gits  int'  New 
York  State.  'Tain't  none  o'  my  business 
whut  yo'  done,  but  I'd  kind  o'  like  to  give 
yo'  a  chance  t'  beat  it.  Ef  yo'  say  so,  I 
can  open  de  trap  befo'  we  gits  int'  Buffalo 
an'  slip  yo'  out." 

"George,  you're  a  top-hole!  But  how 
did  you  learn  that  this  man  is  a  Secret 
Service  agent?" 

"He  done  show  me  de  ca'd  signed  by 
Flynn." 

"Describe  him." 

"Big,  hair  pale  yelluh,  nice-lookin'  an' 
friendly." 

Mathison  wondered  if  he  wasn't  asleep. 
With  the  manila  envelope  and  the  red  book 

177 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

in  their  possession,  they  were  still  on  the 
train!  What  had  happened? 

"The  man  has  been  asking  you  questions 
about  me?" 

"Yes,  suh.  Count  o'  dat  ca'd  I  had  t' 
ansuh." 

"How  does  he  spend  his  time?" 

"Playin'  auction  wid  two  friends.  Dey's 
Secret  Service,  too,"  George  added,  gloomily. 

Four  of  them.  And  the  three  men  had 
taken  turns,  all  the  way  across  the  conti- 
nent, in  keeping  him  awake;  bribed  this 
porter,  too,  to  keep  tabs  and  report.  Until 
his  encounter  with  The  Yellow  Typhoon, 
Mathison  had  had  no  real  idea  of  the  num- 
ber or  the  descriptions  of  his  pursuers.  But 
still  on  board !  That  was  confounding.  It 
wasn't  logical.  .  .  .  He  stiffened.  To  kill 
him,  now  that  he  could  identify  the  woman? 
To  swing  him  off  into  the  dark  before  he 
could  get  his  forces  together.  There  was 
logic  in  that.  He  smiled  at  the  porter. 

"George,  I've  an  idea  there  must  be  a 
case  of  mistaken  identity  in  all  this.  They 
mistook  me  at  the  hotel  last  night.  There 
was  a  row,  and  I  came  back." 

George  shifted  his  cap  to  his  right  ear 
and  stared  briefly  at  the  slashed  kit-bags. 

178 


"If  I'd  have  been  the  man  they  thought 
I  was  I  wouldn't  be  here." 

George  straightened  his  cap.  There  was 
something  in  this  explanation  that  pleased 
him. 

"Has  the  Secret  Service  man  asked  my 
name?" 

"No,  suh." 

"Just  as  I  thought.  He's  sure  I'm  the 
man;  just  as  they  were  sure  at  the  hotel. 
Well,  I  sha'n't  worry.  Everything  will  be 
explained  when  I  reach  the  Waldorf.  You 
might  drop  him  the  hint  I'm  going  there. 
It  will  save  a  lot  of  trouble.  But  of  course 
it  wouldn't  be  wise  for  him  to  know  I  told 
you  to  tell  him.'7 

"I  undahstan',  suh." 

"Then  I'll  have  my  breakfast." 

On  the  wall-hook  in  compartment  6  hung 
a  beautiful  rose-kimono.  There  are  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  of  these  lovely  robes. 
They  look  exactly  alike  until  you  examine 
them,  and  then  you  note  that  they  differ 
as  roses  themselves  differ. 

In  compartment  2  there  was  also  a  rose- 
kimono.  It  was  wrapped  about  the  grace- 
ful body  of  The  Yellow  Typhoon.  She 

179 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

wound  a  veil  about  her  head,  dropping  it 
to  the  tip  of  her  nose.  Then  she  picked  up 
her  dress,  her  toilet-bag,  and  started  off  for 
the  ladies'  dressing-room.  There  wasn't 
room  to  dress  in  the  compartment,  as  the 
berths  had  not  been  made  up.  She  had 
slept  through  the  major  part  of  the  day. 
She  floated  past  compartment  6,  the  door 
of  which  was  slightly  ajar.  It  had  been 
slightly  ajar  ever  since  the  departure  from 
Chicago. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  George,  the  porter, 
heard  the  buzzer.  Passenger  in  6  was 
calling.  He  hurried  off.  It  was  George's 
trysting-hour.  Tips. 

"The  luggage  to  the  trap,  please.  We 
wish  to  leave  instantly  the  train  stops  at 
One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street." 

"Yes'm." 

"I  note  that  you  wear  a  Liberty  Bond 
button." 

"  Yes'm.     Got  two." 

'Then  you  are  a  good  American?" 

"I  sho'  is,  ma'am." 

"Very  well,  then.  Here  is  a  box.  After  the 
train  leaves  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth 
Street,  you  will  give  this  box  to  the  gentle- 
man in  compartment  one.  I  am  trusting 

180 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

you  because  I  have  to.  It  is  military.  If 
you  fail  to  deliver  it  you  betray  your  coun- 
try, and  in  that  case  woe  to  you!  He  will 
ask  you  who  gave  it  to  you.  You  will  tell 
him  the  lady  in  compartment  two/' 

"Yes'm!"  George's  tongue  had  grown 
suddenly  and  mysteriously  thick  and  dry. 

"  And  here  is  something  for  your  trouble." 

It  was  a  gold  note  for  fifty  dollars. 
George's  brain  became  nearly  as  dry  as  his 
tongue.  Even  as  he  folded  the  bill  and 
tucked  it  into  a  pocket  the  train  began  to 
slow  down.  He  swooped  up  the  luggage 
and  staggered  out  into  the  corridor,  where 
he  was  obliged  to  hug  the  partition  to  per- 
mit the  lady  coming  out  of  the  dressing- 
room  to  pass.  The  train  stopped.  He 
helped  the  two  women  to  alight,  dumped 
the  luggage,  and  jumped  aboard,  dropping 
the  trap  and  running  back  to  the  vacant 
compartment  for  the  mysterious  box. 
Military!  His  brain  was  as  full  of  kinks  as 
his  wool.  But  there  was  one  clear  idea  in 
his  head — nothing  could  prevent  him  de- 
livering this  box  to  the  man  in  compart- 
ment 1. 

"Fo'  de  Ian'  sakes!"  he  murmured.  "Ef 
dat  lady  'ain't  went  an'  fo'got  de  kimono!" 

181 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

With  the  mysterious  box  under  one  arm 
and  the  rose-kimono  under  the  other,  he 
sallied  forth. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  platform  of  the  One 
Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street  station, 
there  was  enacted  a  scene  of  tenderness  and 
animation.  The  woman  who  had  forgotten 
her  kimono  rushed  into  the  arms  of  another 
woman,  statuesque,  white-haired.  Her  face, 
alight  with  joy,  was  beautiful;  but  there  was 
a  subtle  hint  that  in  repose  it  would  be 
tragic. 

"My  Hilda!  My  Hilda!"  She  spoke  in 
an  alien  tongue. 

" Darling  mother!"  in  the  same  tongue. 

A  dapper  little  man  with  a  Semitic  cast 
of  countenance  began  to  dance  about  the 
two. 

* '  Here,  here.  Stop  that  lingo !  It  sounds 
too  much  like  German,  and  we'll  be  held 
up.  Mother  Nordstrom,  you  must  remem- 
ber!" 

"Nonsense,  Sammy!"  cried  the  daughter. 
'You're  always  such  a  fussy  old  dear! 
Glad  to  see  me?" 

"I  should  say  yes!  But  come  along. 
We've  no  time  to  waste." 

The  quartet — which  included  the  Breton 

182 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

maid — were  soon  in  the  comfortable  limou- 
sine below. 

"My !"  said  the  dapper  little  man.  "  You're 
big  medicine  to  these  eyes!  Always  Johnny 
on  the  spot.  You're  the  only  woman  of  the 
kind." 

"It  was  a  narrow  squeak  this  time. 
Wrecks,  delays,  snow,  and  all  that." 

"How  do  you  feel?"  anxiously. 

"Splendid!" 

"Letter-perfect?" 

"Never  doubt  it!  ...  New  York!  .  .  . 
Home!  The  glorious  noise  of  it!  The  mag- 
nificent hurry!  .  .  .  Where  are  we  going  to 
eat?" 

"Theater.  Everything's  ready  in  the 
office.  You'll  have  half  an  hour  to  doze  in. 
No  new  people  to  confuse  you;  old  cast 
complete.  House  sold  out  week  in  advance. 
The  whole  town  is  on  its  toes  to  see  you. 
I  am  a  brute  to  force  you  on  to-night,  with- 
out any  rest;  but  you  were  due  three  days 
ago.  And  say!  when  I  got  that  cable  I 
swore.  Never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  And 
it  turned  out  to  be  the  most  original  stunt 
of  the  winter.  The  town  swept  clean  of 
your  photographs  and  lithos,  the  papers 
agreeing  not  to  run  Sunday  cuts;  not  even 

183 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

a  tintype  in  the  lobby.  And  the  whole 
town  is  crazy  to  know  why.  Some  little 
advertising  stunt,  believe  me !  Nothing  in 
town  but  your  name  on  three-sheets  and 
small  bills.  Hereafter  you  boss  your  own 
publicity  campaigns." 

A  dry  little  smile  stirred  the  lips  of  the 
actress. 

"Sarah,"  said  the  mother  to  the  Breton 
maid,  "have  you  taken  good  care  of  my 
Hilda?" 

"She's  been  a  trump,  mother!"  inter- 
rupted the  daughter. 

"But  she  looks  as  if  she  had  been  ill." 

"No,  madame  .  .  .  the  journey  .  .  ."  Two 
faces,  thought  the  maid,  so  alike  that  only 
the  good  God  Himself  might  distinguish 
one  from  the  other! 

Her  mistress  leaned  back  and  closed  her 
eyes.  The  train  would  be  in  the  tunnel 
now  and  the  box  in  Mathison's  hands. 
What  would  be  his  wonder?  She  could 
only  imagine.  But  she  knew  that  to  him 
she  was  The  Yellow  Typhoon,  the  Snow- 
leopard,  the  gambling  woman  of  the  Honan 
Road. 

In  a  little  while  all  these  momentous 
events  would  become  a  vague  memory  to 

184 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

him.  He  would  shortly  be  busy  with  the 
problems  of  active  warfare.  He  would 
never  know  that  a  guardian-angel  had  been 
at  his  elbow  for  days.  How  easy  it  was  to 
visualize  him! — sitting  on  the  deck  beside 
her  chair,  that  funny  little  green  bird  cling- 
ing to  his  shoulder!  And  then  that  night, 
when  he  told  her  of  his  promise  to  his  moth- 
er. ...  The  tenderness  of  his  voice!  "Ami 
a  mollycoddle?"  He  had  asked  her  that  in 
all  seriousness.  .  .  .  Boy! 

His  puzzlement  would  be  large  for  a  while ; 
and  out  of  the  chaff  of  speculation  he  would 
find  the  grain  of  fact :  The  Yellow  Typhoon, 
to  save  herself,  had  betrayed  her  compan- 
ions. Thus  Berta  would  escape  prison, 
perhaps  death. 

Irony!  The  same  ancient  story — Hilda, 
sacrificing  herself  for  Berta,  now  as  always; 
throwing  away  what  might  have  been  hap- 
piness to  prevent  the  ghost  from  re-enter- 
ing the  life  of  the  white-haired  woman  at  her 
side.  And  she  was  practically  turning  Berta 
loose  in  New  York,  where  she  would  be  likely 
to  draw  a  stain  across  a  stainless  life.  Berta, 
free,  there  would  soon  be  strange  tales 
afloat,  and  each  and  every  one  of  them 
would  be  credited  to  Norma  Farrington. 

13  185 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

No  matter,  so  long  as  the  truth  could  be 
kept  from  the  mother.  The  mockery  of  the 
grave  in  Greenwood! 

An  infinitesimal  clue:  she  had  left  that 
because  she  would  not  have  been  human 
else.  There  would  be  one  chance  in  a 
million  of  his  understanding.  A  little  green 
feather — Malachi's — which  she  had  picked 
off  the  deck  one  morning.  She  had  hidden 
it  in  the  little  red  book.  He  would  find  it, 
but  he  would  not  understand.  A  miracle, 
nothing  short  of  that;  and  this  was  not  the 
day  of  miracles.  .  .  .  Good-by! 

As  the  train  drew  out  of  One  Hundred 
and  Twenty-fifth  Street  station  the  blond 
man  returned  to  No.  2,  where  he  found  his 
companion  completely  dressed  and  waiting. 
She  was  heavily  veiled. 

"Where's  the  keys?" 

"Your  keys?  Oh,  there  they  are.  on  the 
berth." 

"What  was  it  you  wanted?" 

"Wanted?"  The  woman  raised  the  veil 
above  her  lips.  "I  haven't  wanted  any- 
thing." 

"But  you  came  and  got  my  keys!" 

"I ...  what?     I  don't  know  what  you 

186 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

are  talking  about.  I  went  directly  to  the 
dressing-room  and  came  straight  back." 

"Berta,  what  nonsense  is  this?  You  came 
for  the  keys  and  I  gave  them  to  you. 
Wittel  and  Franz  saw  you." 

"Karl,  you  certainly  did  not!"  alarmed. 

The  man  stared  at  her  for  a  space.  Then 
swiftly  he  knelt  before  his  kit-bag,  opened 
it  and  rammed  his  hand  to  the  bottom, 
plowing  about. 

"Gott!"  he  whispered,  his  color  fading. 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Gone! . . .  You  devil,  what  game  are  you 
up  to?"  he  cried,  springing  up.  "I  warned 
you  once  never  to  play  with  me.  Where  is 
it?" 

"Are  you  mad  or  am  !?...!  haven't 
touched  that  bag.  ...  I  will  kill  you  if  you 
lay  a  hand  on  me!  Some  one  has  tricked 
you.  Call  the  porter." 

"Furies  of  hell!  I  saw  you!  The  rose- 
kimono;  it  was  you!" 

"Karl,  I  tell  you  it  was  not  I!  We  have 
been  tricked.  Call  the  porter." 

The  man  opened  the  door  furiously  and 
bumped  into  George,  who  was  sailing  airily 
along  the  corridor. 

"Come  in  here!" 

187 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

George  did  not  like  the  tone,  but  he 
obeyed. 

"What's  that  under'your  arm?"  demand- 
ed the  woman. 

"  Kimono.  Lady  in  number  six  done  got 
off  an'  fo'got  it." 

The  woman  seized  it.  "Karl,  don't  you 
see?  It  is  so  nearly  like  mine  it  would  fool 
any  one!  .  .  .  Porter,  what  was  this  woman 
like?" 

"Can't  say,  ma'am.  Always  wo'  a  veil. 
Boss,  dat  young  man  nex'  do'  is  goin'  t' 
de  Waldorf.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute  fo' 
de  grips  an'  de  kimono." 

George  backed  out  diplomatically.  He 
did  not  like  the  flavor  of  the  atmosphere;  too 
electrical.  Besides,  he  had  a  box  to  deliver. 
He  was  plumb  in  the  middle  of  the  war. 

"Berta,  I  don't  understand  this.  I  saw 
you!  Franz  and  Wittel  will  back  me!" 

With  the  kimono  spread  over  her  knees, 
The  Yellow  Typhoon  frowned  into  space. 

' '  Some  spy.  Saw  me  somewhere,  perhaps 
back  in  that  hotel.  You  were  playing  cards; 
your  scrutiny  wouldn't  be  keen.  A  bit  of 
court-plaster,  a  veil,  and  this  kimono  ..." 

'[The  full  face,  Berta.  .  .  .  Fours/" 
ominously. 

188 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

Mathison  had  donned  his  uniform,  his 
greatcoat,  packed  his  kit-bags,  and  drawn 
the  cotton-flannel  bag  over  Malachi's  cage. 
On  his  breast  was  pinned  the  bit  of  green 
ribbon.  Presently  he  heard  the  signal  on 
the  door.  George  came  in. 

"A  box  fo'  yo',  suh.  .  .  .  My  Ian'!"  he 
broke  off. 

"What's  the  matter?'7  asked  Mathison, 
eying  the  box  curiously. 

"Dem  regimentals!  Is  yo'  an  officer  in 
de  navy?" 

"  Yes,  George.  What's  this  box?  Where 
did  you  get  it?" 

George  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the 
partition. 

"The  woman  next  door?" 

"Yes,  suh!" 

"She  gave  it  to  you  for  me?"  astonished 
beyond  measure. 

"Yes,  suh." 

Mathison  rubbed  his  chin.  It  might  be 
some  infernal-machine.  Still,  it  had  to  be 
opened.  With  the  lightest  touch  he  untied 
the  string.  With  a  slow,  steady  pull  he 
drew  off  the  cover.  Hypnotized,  he  stared 
at  the  contents.  A  manila  envelope,  a  little 
red  book  .  .  .  and  a  folded  blue-print! 

189 


CHAPTER  XII 

'"THERE  are  some  astonishments  which 
1  cannot  be  translated  verbally.  So 
great  was  Mathison's  that  he  could  neither 
think  nor  move.  The  aftermath  of  a 
thunderbolt  affects  you  like  that.  When  a 
certain  phase  of  the  hypnosis  passed,  and 
Mathison  began  to  get  the  hang  of  life 
again,  he  became  conscious  of  the  porter. 
He  drew  out  a  bill  and  presented  it. 

"Thanks.  Uncle  Sam  will  be  very  grate- 
ful to  you.  Any  idea  what  was  in  this  box?" 

"De  lady  said  it  was  military,  suh." 

Mathison  nodded.  "The  man  next  door, 
George,  is  not  a  Secret  Service  man.  I'd 
like  to  tell  you  all  about  it,  but  the  time  is 
too  short.  By  telling  him  that  I'm  going 
straight  to  the  Waldorf  you  will  be  doing 
your  Uncle  Sam  an  extra  service." 

"I  told  him,  Cap'n." 

"Good!  Send  a  redcap  in  when  the  train 
stops.  Good-by  and  good  luck." 

190 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Mathison  closed  the  door  and  locked  it. 
The  little  red  book  he  slipped  into  an  inner 
pocket,  the  manila  envelope  he  dropped  into 
one  of  the  kit-bags.  What  he  did  with  the 
blue-print  will  be  revealed  at  the  proper 
moment.  Then  he  sat  down,  his  brain 
beginning  to  boil  with  questions.  By  and 
by  he  came  to  what  he  believed  to  be  the 
solution  of  this  miracle.  The  Yellow  Ty- 
phoon was  afraid.  She  had  betrayed  her 
companions  because  she  saw  immunity  in 
the  betrayal.  She  would  never  receive  it 
from  John  Mathison,  Bob  Hallowell's  friend! 
She,  too,  should  pay.  All  the  cards  in  his 
hand  again,  and  he  would  play  them  on  the 
basis  that  the  phrase  "blood  and  iron"  was 
not  pertinent  to  the  Teuton  only. 

For  what  had  been  the  primal  impetus  of 
this  remarkable  journey  of  ten  thousand 
miles,  of  hiding  continually  behind  steel 
walls,  of  refusing  to  take  profit  from  the 
vast  power  at  his  service?  An  eye  for  an 
eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth!  That  he  was  a 
secret  agent,  carrying  a  tremendous  unde- 
veloped sea-offensive — which  he  still  had 
by  the  hair — was  to  his  mind,  obsessed  with 
a  single  idea,  an  affair  of  secondary  impor- 
tance. 

191 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Draw  the  hand  strongly  across  the  sur- 
face of  the  water.  What  happens?  A 
wave,  that  follows  irresistibly,  fatefully, 
inescapably.  This  was,  then,  primarily  a 
man-hunt,  played  backward,  probably  as 
peculiar  a  man-hunt  as  was  ever  conceived. 
The  pursuers  were  in  reality  the  pursued. 
Being  a  good  psychologist,  Mathison  had 
simply  put  himself  back  of  his  enemies' 
point  of  view.  In  their  minds,  who  would 
be  the  logical  messenger?  John  Mathison, 
transferred  to  European  waters,  the  familiar 
friend  of  the  inventor,  the  one  man  living 
who  knew  exactly  what  the  invention  in  its 
entirety  was.  This  established  in  their 
minds,  there  were  ninety-nine  chances  in  a 
hundred  that  they  would  follow  him.  And 
there  was  always  the  possibility  that  Paolo, 
the  Spanish  servant,  had  conveyed  enough 
scraps  of  information  to  decide  them. 

Had  he  been  only  vaguely  certain  that 
they  carried  the  blue-print,  Mathison  would 
have  used  his  power  and  struck  immediately 
after  the  sleep-fume  attack  the  first  night 
on  shore.  But,  he  had  argued,  supposing 
he  struck  and  the  print  was  not  found? 
They  would  be  liberated;  forewarned,  they 
would  vanish.  He  hadn't  credited  them 

192 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

with  the  stupidity  of  carrying  so  dangerous 
a  thing  as  that  blue-print.  In  their  place 
he  would  have  mailed  it  from  San  Fran- 
cisco, with  absolute  certainty  that  it  would 
reach  the  hands  intended.  There  was  no 
censorship  over  national  mail.  And  now 
that  the  print  was  in  his  possession,  he  never 
could  prove  that  it  had  actually  been  in 
theirs. 

For  the  real  point  was  to  secure  evidence, 
of  which  to  date  he  had  not  an  iota,  not 
such  as  would  pass  muster  in  any  court  out- 
side of  Germany.  To  have  the  blond  man 
and  his  companions  arrested  as  matters  now 
stood  would  be  a  waste  of  time.  So  his 
whole  plan  was  to  lure  them  to  a  point  where 
the  hand  of  the  law  could  touch  and  hold. 
An  overt  act,  culpable  legally.  And  The 
Yellow  Typhoon  herself  had  restored  the 
means. 

There  was  still  one  puzzle — the  woman's 
lack  of  curiosity.  She  had  not  opened  the 
envelope.  Had  she  declared  to  the  blond 
man  that  she  had  not  found  it?  It  would 
not  be  stating  it  strong  enough  to  say  that 
she  was  the  most  baffling  woman  he  had 
ever  met;  he  had  never  read  of  one  her 
match. 

193 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

At  length  Mathison  and  redcap  swung 
along  with  the  crowd  making  for  the 
gates.  Just  beyond  the  gates  Mathison 
signaled  to  the  redcap  to  pause.  He  felt  a 
hand  on  his  arm,  but  he  did  not  turn  his 
head. 

"  Mathison?"  came  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes.  The  blond  man  with  the  ruddy 
cheeks.  The  woman  behind  him  in  the 
sables.  Follow  and  report  to  your  chief." 
Mathison  went  on. 

Quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  entered  the 
Waldorf.  This  time  he  seemed  indifferent 
to  the  kit-bags.  The  boy  deposited  them 
along  with  the  cage  in  front  of  the  desk. 
Mathison  signed  the  register,  opened  one  of 
the  kit-bags,  and  took  out  the  manila  en- 
velope, which,  before  leaving  the  Philippines, 
he  had  been  warned  solemnly  to  guard  with 
his  life. 

"  Please  deposit  this  in  your  safe  and  give 
me  a  receipt."  Mathison  spoke  calmly,  but 
his  heart  pounded  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment. Carelessly,  in  view  of  any  who  cared 
to  see,  he  stuffed  the  receipt  into  the  little 
pocket  at  the  top  of  his  trousers.  Then  he 
went  up  to  his  room.  He  set  Malachi  on 
a  stand  by  the  radiator.  He  emptied  the 

194 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

kit-bags  and  distributed  the  contents  into 
drawers  and  closets. 

Afraid.  The  Yellow  Typhoon  was  afraid ! 
Or  was  it  Hallo  well! — a  touch  of  remorse? 

He  sat  down  and  opened  the  little  red 
book  for  some  addresses  Morgan  had  given 
him.  And  something  fluttered  to  his  knee. 
It  was  a  blue-green  feather,  brilliant  as  an 
emerald.  Malachi's;  he  was  always  finding 
Malachi's  feathers.  But  the  sight  of  this 
one  recalled  a  promise  he  had  made  him- 
self— to  call  up  Mrs.  Chester's  apartment. 
If  he  had  to  sail  before  she  returned,  he 
would  leave  Malachi  with  the  apartment 
people.  So  he  stuffed  the  feather  absently 
into  his  match-pocket.  Later  he  sent  many 
messages  over  the  telephone. 

He  felt  in  his  pockets  for  his  fountain-pen 
and,  not  finding  it,  remembered  that  he 
hadn't  taken  it  from  the  vest  of  his  civilian 
suit.  Naturally,  he  went  through  all  the 
pockets,  and  among  other  things  came  upon 
a  folded  slip  of  glazed  paper.  He  opened  it. 

Several  minutes  passed.  Mathison  was 
like  stone.  Norma  Farrington.  He  saw 
now  why  the  photograph  had  originally 
intrigued  him.  It  resembled  Morgan's  de- 
scription of  the  woman  known  as  The  Yel- 

195 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

low  Typhoon! . . .  Absurd!  It  was  not  with- 
in reason.  Some  twist,  some  legerdemain 
the  photograph  had  given  it.  The  shad- 
ows; these  had  something  to  do  with 
it.  Norma  Farrington,  The  Yellow  Ty- 
phoon? The  absurdity  was  patent.  The 
notorious  woman  of  Honan  Road  could  not 
possibly  be  a  celebrity  on  Broadway.  Too 
many  miles  between. 

He  sprang  to  the  telephone.  ''Give  me 
the  theater-ticket  agency.  .  .  .  Hello!  Is 
Norma  Farrington  playing  in  town?  .  .  .  She 
is?  . . .  What  theater?  . . .  Thanks!"  Mathi- 
son  got  out  the  little  red  book  with  trem- 
bling fingers.  He  rang  up  a  number.  "This 
is  Mathison,  the  green  ribbon.  What's  the 
report  on  the  woman  in  the  sables?  .  .  .  All 
right.  I'll  hold  the  wire."  Five  minutes 
passed.  " Hello!  .  .  .  Entered  a  house  in 
Fiftieth  Street?  Fine!"  Mathison  con- 
sulted the  time;  it  was  seven-fifty.  _ 

He  became  a  whirlwind.  He  flew^down- 
stairs  and  plunged  toward  the  revolving 
doors. 

"Taxi!" 

The  vehicle  was  forthcoming  instantly, 
due  to  his  visored  cap,  gold  bands,  and  star. 
He  jumped  into  the  taxi,  naming  a  theater 

196 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

up-town.  He  paid  a  speculator  five  dollars 
for  the  only  seat  left — Q,  center.  As  he 
was  late,  he  had  to  navigate  through  chan- 
nels of  reluctant  feet.  Norma  Farrington! 
He  had  only  one  idea  with  four  sides  to  it — 
something  complete. 

The  footlights  flashed.  When  the  curtain 
rolled  up  there  were  three  people  on  the 
stage — no  one  he  had  ever  seen  before. 
They  moved  about  and  talked.  Occasion- 
ally a  ripple  of  laughter  ran  over  the  house. 
But  none  of  these  things  meant  anything 
to  Mathison.  He  was  not  conscious  of  a 
word  that  was  spoken  or  the  significance  of  a 
single  movement. 

There  were  four  entrances  to  this  stage 
living-room,  and  Mathison  grew  dizzy  try- 
ing to  watch  all  four  at  once.  At  eight- 
forty,  through  the  French  window — you 
saw  a  charming  garden  beyond — came  a 
woman  in  gray.  Her  expression  was  de- 
mure— mischievously  demure.  The  audi- 
ence broke  into  applause.  Tense,  Mathison 
strained  his  ears. 

Outside  the  blond  man  waited  with  the 
patience  of  his  breed.  His  glance  never 
left  the  entrance  to  the  theater. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

S  soon  as  the  curtain  fell  Mathison 
stood  up  and  plowed  his  way  out  to  the 
aisle.  Once  in  the  aisle,  he  rushed  to  the 
foyer,  where  he  demanded  the  way  to  the 
managerial  office.  His  uniform  was  open 
sesame. 

The  producing  manager,  a  dapper,  bright- 
eyed  Jew,  happened  to  be  in,  and  he  was 
outlining  a  campaign  for  his  press  agent 
when  Mathison  burst  in. 

"I  am  Lieutenant  -  Commander  John 
Mathison,"  he  announced,  a  bit  out  of 
breath  for  his  run  up  the  stairs. 

"  What's  the  difficulty?"  asked  the  man- 
ager, coolly.  "Anchor  afoul  my  unlighted 
sign?" 

Mathison  laughed.  He  understood  at 
once  that  here  was  a  good  sport.  "Pardon 
my  abruptness,"  he  apologized.  "I'd  like 
to  use  your  telephone." 

The  manager  waved  his  hand.  He  heard 
Mathison's  side  of  the  conversation. 

198 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Mathison.  What's  the  report  from 
Fiftieth  Street?  .  .  .  The  woman  still  inside? 

Thanks No,  that's  all."  Mathison  hung 

up  the  receiver  dreamily. 

"What's  happened?"  asked  Rubin,  ironi- 
cally. "Have  we  sunk  the  German  fleet?" 

"We  are  going  to,"  said  Mathison.  "I 
want  a  messenger  the  quickest  way  I  can 
get  him." 

"War  stuff?"  thrilled  in  spite  of  his  re- 
sentment at  the  intrusion.  Rubin  was  an 
autocrat  in  the  theatrical  world. 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  you'd  call  it  that. 
I  want  to  get  some  flowers." 

The  manager  sank  back.  "You  sailors! 
I  thought  maybe  a  submarine  was  loose 
outside!"  He  was  going  to  add  a  sting, 
when  a  boot  came  into  contact  with  his 
shin,  a  sign  that  the  alert  press  agent  had 
something  on  his  mind.  "Flowers!" 

"I  have  come  ten  thousand  miles  to  send 
these  flowers,"  replied  Mathison,  smiling. 

"Get  a  head  usher,  Klein,"  said  the  mana- 
ger, secretly  bubbling.  What  a  humdinger 
for  the  morning  papers !  As  the  press  agent 
vanished,  Rubin  turned  to  Mathison.  "You 
may  send  flowers,  but  not  across  the  lights. 
I  will  not  break  that  rule  for  anybody." 

199 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"So  long  as  she  gets  them.  May  I  write 
a  note?" 

The  manager  got  up  and  indicated  his 
chair.  "  Write  as  many  as  you  like.  I  take 
it  that  the  flowers  are  for  Miss  Farrington." 

"They  are." 

"Do  you  know  her?"  curiously. 

"I  do."  The  smile  was  still  on  Mathi- 
son's  lips. 

"  In  that  case,  go  ahead.  But  if  it  happens 
that  she  doesn't  recall  you,  your  posies  will 
go  directly  to  the  ash-can.  She  isn't  easy 
to  know." 

"I  know  her,"  insisted  Mathison. 

"I  rather  wish,  though,  that  you  would 
put  this  off  until  to-morrow  night.  Miss 
Farrington  will  be  very  tired.  She's  done 
a  fine  and  generous  thing — gone  on  without 
rest,  after  an  unbroken  journey  from  the 
other  side  of  the  world." 

"No  one  is  better  aware  of  that  than  I. 
She  will  see  me." 

Rubin  knew  confidence  when  he  saw  it. 
He  twisted  his  cigar  from  one  corner  of  his 
mouth  to  the  other.  A  vigorous,  unusual 
chap,  this,  and  handsome  enough  to  wake 
up  The  Farrington.  Ten  thousand  miles! 

Her  aloofness  toward   men   was  now  ac- 
200 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

counted  for.  An  old  affair  nobody  had 
heard  of.  There  was  an  ominous  portent 
in  this  affair  for  Broadway.  She  was  the 
loyalest  of  the  loyal;  she'd  stick  to  her  con- 
tract. But  after! 

Mathison  settled  down  to  his  note.  Each 
time  he  balled  up  a  piece  of  paper  and  flung 
it  into  the  waste-basket  Rubin  frowned. 

The  press  agent  came  storming  back,  an 
usher  in  tow.  The  latter  was  given  fifty  dol- 
lars and  ordered  to  purchase  Parma  violets. 

"No  tinfoil,  no  tinsel  strings,  no  bouquet; 
loose,  as  they  came  from  the  soil.  Carry 
this  note  and  the  flowers  to  Miss  Fairing- 
ton's  dressing-room.  And  here  is  some- 
thing for  your  trouble."  To  the  manager 
he  said,  "Thanks  for  your  courtesy." 

"You're  as  welcome  as  the  spring." 

"Oh,  boy!"  cried  the  press  agent  as  the 
door  closed  behind  Mathison.  "In  a  dead 
world  like  this!  A  real  yarn,  no  faking. 
Did  you  lamp  the  roll  he  dragged  out? 
That  was  real  money,  all  yellows.  Think 
of  it!  Our  Norma,  a  navy  man,  ten 
thousand  miles,  flowers,  a  wad  of  yellows! 
She'll  set  up  a  holler.  Pass  the  buck  to 
me.  I'll  be  the  goat  with  the  cheerfulest 
smile  ever!" 

14  201 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Klein,  we  sha'n't  use  this." 
"What?"  barked  the  press  agent. 
"No.     It's    real.    This    is    no    Johnny. 
Norma  is  no  chorus  beauty.     Of  course,  I 
jumped  at  the  idea,  but  we'll  have  to  pass 
it  up.     I  wouldn't  lose  Norma's  genuine 
affection  for  me  for  a  million  three-sheets, 
free  of  charge.     No.     Lock  it  up  and  forget 
it." 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?" 
Mathison  returned  to  his  seat,  apologiz- 
ing to  every  one  so  courteously  and  agree- 
ably that  even  the  men  forgave  him.  He 
was  quite  calm  now.  All  incertitude  was 
gone;  he  knew.  The  Yellow  Typhoon  was 
in  a  house  in  Fiftieth  Street,  and  Norma 
Farrington  was  yonder  on  the  stage,  de- 
lighting his  eyes,  thrilling  his  ears.  The 
wonder  of  her!  God  bless  her,  she  had 
tried  to  save  Bob  Hallo  well  that  night! 
And  he  would  never  have  known  but  for 
that  posed  photograph! 

She  did  not  wear  any  of  the  flowers  in 
the  second  act,  nor  in  the  third;  but  when 
she  came  on  in  the  fourth  she  carried  a  small 
bouquet  in  her  corsage.  She  was  Joyous- 
ness.  It  radiated  from  her  into  the  audi- 
ence. Faces  all  over  the  house  were  beam- 

202 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

ing,  not  with  merriment,  but  with  good 
humor. 

There  came  a  little  moment  when  throats 
became  stuffy — one  of  those  flashes  of 
tenderness  whose  link  is  generally  laughter. 
When  the  whole  house  was  watching  the 
comedienne  tensely,  in  absolute  silence, 
Mathison  laughed  aloud,  joyously!  Heads 
swinging  resentfully  in  his  direction  woke 
him  up.  His  cheeks  flushed. 

Doubtless  by  this  time  you  have  formed 
the  impression  that  Mathison  had  lost  his 
compass,  that  he  was  drifting,  that  he  had 
forgotten  the  vital  business  which  had 
brought  him  all  these  thousands  of  miles. 
Nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  truth. 
Ah1  these  little  eddies,  currents,  whirlpools 
were  at  the  sides  of  the  stream,  that  flowed 
on,  impervious,  inevitable. 

For  a  man  whose  soul  was  in  haste  he 
took  his  time.  His  movements  within  the 
theater  and  outside  in  the  lobby  were 
leisurely.  On  the  street  he  made  no  effort 
to  bore  through.  But  when  he  reached  the 
corner  he  was  off  like  a  shot  toward  the  dark 
alley  which  led  to  the  stage  door.  This  he 
plunged  through  recklessly — into  the  arms  of 
the  ancient  Cerberus  who  tended  the  door. 

203 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"Outside,  outside!  The  comic  opera  has 
went!" 

Mathison  presented  his  card.  "Miss 
Farrington  is  expecting  me." 

"Oh,  she  is,  huh?  Well,  she  said  nothin' 
to  me  about  it." 

"I'll  wait." 

"You're  welcome;  but  in  the  alley, 
admiral,  in  the  alley.  Nobody  gits  by  me 
to-night,  comin'  in.  Orders." 

"I  don't  suppose  ten  dollars  would  in- 
terest you  in  the  least." 

"Not  unless  I  saw  it.  Honest,  now,  are 
you  meetin'  Miss  Farrington?" 

"I  am.  I'll  be  peaceful,  Tirpitz;  but 
if  you  send  for  the  stage-hands,  I'm  likely 
to  shoot  up  the  place." 

"All  right.     I'll  take  it  in  two  fives." 

Mathison  discovered  that  he  was  now 
free  to  walk  about  as  he  pleased,  so  long 
as  he  did  not  amble  in  the  direction  of  the 
dressing-rooms.  He  anchored  himself  by 
the  wall,  from  where  he  could  see  all  who 
came  down  the  narrow  iron  staircase.  The 
draughty,  musty,  painty  odors  were  to  him 
like  perfumed  amber  from  Araby. 

By  and  by  two  women  came  down.  They 
went  past  Mathison  without  taking  any 

204 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

notice  of  him.  They  were  followed  shortly 
by  a  man  whom  Mathison  recognized  as 
the  conceited  ass  who  made  love  to  Miss 
Farrington  in  the  play. 

A  row  of  lights  overhead  went  out.  The 
stage  was  now  in  a  kind  of  twilight.  I 
wonder  if  there  is  a  sadder  place  than  a  stage 
when  the  actors  have  left  it  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  scene-shifters,  carpenters,  and 
electricians?  To  Mathison  it  was  only  the 
door  to  Ali  Baba's  cave. 

At  length — thirty  minutes,  to  be  exact — 
a  woman  came  down  the  stairs  slowly.  A 
veil  was  wrapped  about  her  face  and  hair. 
But  Mathison  would  have  recognized  that 
sable  coat  anywhere.  He  stepped  forward 
shakily  and  took  off  his  cap. 

"I  suppose  it's  still  snowing  outside?" 
casually. 

"What  we  sailors  call  thick  weather."  No 
questions;  just  an  ordinary,  every-day  query 
about  the  weather.  No  confusion.  uYou 
are  not  afraid  to  shake  hands?" 

"I  don't  know  just  what  to  do." 

"Oh,  I'd  return  the  hand."  His  laughter 
rocked  the  lurking  echoes  above. 

And  something  in  that  laughter  made  her 
afraid  of  him,  of  herself. 

205 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"Where  in  the  world  did  you  find  all 
those  violets — loose,  the  way  I  love  them?" 
She  did  not  give  him  time  to  answer.  "My 
car  is  at  the  end  of  the  alley.  Where  shall 
we  go?  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  half -hour. 
...  I  suppose  it  was  written." 
"That  I  should  find  you?  Yes." 
"I  like  the  way  you  say  that."  Had  the 
porter  betrayed  her?  And  yet  the  porter  could 
not  have  betrayed  anything  beyond  the  fact 
that  she,  not  Berta,  had  given  him  that 
box.  Some  unforeseen  stroke  of  luck;  cer- 
tainly not  that  feather.  He  was  no  brother 
to  the  Cumsean  Sibyl.  Still,  he  had  found 
her.  She  was  tremendously  curious  to 
learn  how.  On  the  other  hand,  she  was 
determined  to  ask  him  no  questions  and,  as 
adroitly  as  she  could,  evade  his.  If  he 
persisted,  she  would  cut  the  meeting  short. 
Some  day — if  she  ever  saw  him  again — she 
would  tell  him  the  story.  She  was  too 
weary  to-night.  She  was  at  once  happy 
and  miserable;  happy  because  it  was  as 
though  his  finding  her  had  been  written, 
miserable  because  the  sordid  denouement 
might  break  at  any  moment.  To  save 
Berta,  not  for  Berta's  sake,  but  for  the 
mother's. 

206 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

She  knew  that  she  was  beautiful,  that  she 
possessed  extraordinary  talent  in  attracting 
men,  though  she  had  never  used  it.  She 
knew  what  power  lay  in  expression,  in  vocal 
music.  She  might  have  made  this  man 
love  her.  For  if  he  had  not  been  drawn  to 
her  through  some  mysterious  forces,  why 
had  he  sought  her?  Those  flowers!  There 
were  gall  and  wormwood  in  this  cup,  but  she 
drank  it  with  a  smile.  Romance,  and  she 
must  let  it  go  by! 

What  had  he  learned  within  these  four 
short  hours?  That  she  was  not  The  Yellow 
Typhoon,  certainly.  Had  there  been  a 
cable  from  that  man  Morgan,  after  his 
solemn  promise?  The  gray  wig  and  the 
goggles  .  .  . 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"That  we  had  better  be  moving.  You 
take  me  wherever  you  think  best." 

"Give  me  your  arm.  It  will  be  slippery 
in  the  alley.  There's  an  umbrella  hi  the 
corner  by  the  door.  Take  it." 

Outside,  he  put  up  the  umbrella;  and  as 
she  took  his  arm  she  knocked  against  some- 
thing heavy  and  hard  in  his  pocket. 

"What  is  that?" 

"Part  of  a  sailor's  paraphernalia." 

207 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"It  is  not  over  yet?"  with  sudden  sus- 
picion. 

"No.  There  are  a  few  threads  that  need 
picking  up." 

The  metal  in  his  voice  did  not  escape  her. 
She  was  puzzled,  for,  logically,  all  his  land 
adventures  should  be  over. 

It  was  only  a  short  distance  to  the  res- 
taurant, which  was  a  famous  one. 

She  selected  it  tactfully,  solely  on  his  ac- 
count. She  herself  had  never  been  inside 
of  it  before  in  the  evening.  But  she  knew 
a  good  deal  about  men,  that  even  so  nice  a 
one  as  this  fresh-skinned,  blue-eyed  sailor- 
man  would  not  object  to  having  his  vanity 
played  up  to.  There  was  another  kind  of 
thought  besides  in  her  mind.  The  night 
would  be  far  more  memorable  if  there  was 
a  background  of  color  and  movement  and 
music.  She  was  weak  enough  to  want  him 
always  to  remember  this  night. 

The  moment  she  took  off  her  veil  and 
coat  she  was  recognized.  That  is  the 
penalty  of  theatrical  fame  in  New  York. 
The  head  waiter  passed  the  word,  and  the 
people  at  the  near-by  tables  stared  and 
whispered;  and  Mathison  wouldn't  have 
been  human  if  he  had  not  expanded  a  little 

208 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

under  this  patent  interest  in  his  lovely 
companion. 

How  was  he  to  know  that  the  gown  she 
wore  had  been  donned  expressly  for  him? 
How  was  he  to  know  that  it  had  been  sent 
for  after  the  arrival  of  the  flowers,  or  that 
she  had  worried  all  through  the  performance 
for  fear  her  mother  would  send  the  wrong  one, 
or  that  it  might  reach  the  theater  too  late? 

Later,  Mathison  could  not  have  told 
whether  she  wore  green  or  blue  or  red.  No 
normal  man  would  have  paid  any  attention 
to  her  gown — with  her  face,  her  eyes,  her 
lips  to  watch. 

Their  orders  scandalized  the  waiter.  Miss 
Farrington  ordered  two  apples  and  Mathi- 
son a  bowl  of  bread  and  milk.  They  laughed. 

"That's  all  I  ever  eat  at  night — fruit." 

"And  I  didn't  come  here  to  eat,"  he  said. 

About  this  time  the  blond  m;  n,  occupied 
by  a  single  idea,  entered  the  restaurant 
lobby,  gave  his  hat  and  coat  to  the  check- 
boy,  then  walked  out  to  the  curb  and  ap- 
proached the  footman. 

"Dismiss  Miss  Farrington's  limousine. 
She  will  go  home  with  us." 

"Yes,  sir."  The  footman  went  down  to 
execute  the  order. 

209 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

The  blond  man  waited  until  he  saw  the 
gray  limousine  maneuver  out  of  the  line 
and  swing  into  the  street;  then  he  returned 
for  his  hat  and  coat.  The  Farrington  was 
nothing  to  him.  He  had  never  heard  of 
her  until  to-night.  Ordinarily  he  might 
have  been  curious  enough  to  have  had  her 
pointed  out.  To-night  such  curiosity  might 
dissipate  his  cleverly  conceived  plans.  Per- 
haps Mathison  had  not  seen  him  actually. 
Anyhow,  he  did  not  intend  to  risk  the  future 
to  satisfy  a  curiosity  which  was  only  negli- 
gible. If  he  had  looked  into  that  dining- 
room,  it  is  quite  possible  this  tale  would 
have  had  a  different  ending.  As  matters 
stood,  he  had  reason  to  be  grateful  to  the 
actress.  She  had  opened  a  way  for  him. 
A  man  with  a  pretty  woman  in  his  charge 
would  not  be  particularly  keen  mentally. 

"  Did  you  like  the  play?" 

Mathison  shook  his  head. 

"You  didn't  like  it?"  astonished. 

'Til  see  it  before  I  sail." 

"Then  you  weren't  in  the  theater  to- 
night?" 

"Oh  yes;  in  Q.  I  was  the  ass  who 
laughed  out  loud  when  the  whole  house  was 

so  still  you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop." 

210 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"You?  ...  I  heard  that,  and  wondered 
what  had  happened.  But  if  you  saw  the 
play  .  .  ." 

"  That's  just  the  point.  I  wasn't  an 
audience;  I  was  a  spectator." 

Something  in  his  eyes,  a  lurking  fire, 
warned  her  not  to  press  in  this  direction. 
After  all,  he  had  not  come  to  see  the  play; 
he  had  come  to  see  her.  And  the  knowledge 
was  like  the  warmth  from  a  wood  fire. 

"A  sailorman!  No  doubt  a  girl  in  every 
port." 

"No."  Without  vehemence.  "The  same 
girl  in  every  port,  in  the  fire,  in  the  moon- 
mists;  the  girl  who  has  been  in  my  heart 
since  I  was  a  boy." 

"Oh."  A  little  dagger-stab  in  her  heart. 
"Then  you  have  come  back  to  marry  before 
you  go  across?" 

"Quite  likely." 

"Love,  marriage,  off  to  the  wars!  .  .  . 
What  is  she  like?" 

"Petrol  on  water." 

She  stared  blankly. 

"If  you  have  never  seen  wide  spreads  of 
petrol  on  a  smooth  sea,"  he  explained, 
"then  you  have  missed  something  inde- 
scribably beautiful.  Fire!  Dawns,  sun- 

211 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

sets,  moonlight;  all  the  flashing  gems  in  the 
world,  moving,  circling,  advancing,  re- 
treating. The  soul  of  a  woman  should  be 
like  that." 

"Are  you  a  poet?" 

"Possibly,  but  inarticulate.  I  don't  know 
one  rhyme  from  another." 

"But  poetry  isn't  rhyme.  Your  descrip- 
tion of  oil  on  water  is  poetry." 

He  laughed.  "If  the  wardrooms  ever 
find  that  out,  I'm  done  for."  The  glory 
of  her!  All  his  life  he  had  been  dreaming 
of  an  hour  like  this. 

A  pause  followed.  His  utter  lack  of  in- 
quisitiveness  intrigued  her  beyond  expres- 
sion. Not  a  word  about  how  he  had  found 
her.  Not  a  word  about  the  Adventure. 
Why?  What  kind  of  a  man  was  he,  that 
he  could  sit  opposite  her  without  deluging 
her  with  questions?  And  he  had  a  right  to 
know  many  things.  She  had  given  him  one 
opening  without  meaning  to — the  query 
relative  to  the  automatic  in  his  pocket. 
Why  hadn't  he  taken  advantage  of  it?" 

She  broke  the  silence  and  led  him  into 
the  war;  but  alter  a  few  phrases  he  veered 
away  from  this.  He  spoke  of  the  snow,  how 

he  longed  for  the  north  country  of  late,  how 

212 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

he  had  grown  weary  for  the  need  of  cold, 
lashing  winds  and  the  smell  of  snow. 

When  she  could  stand  it  no  longer  she 
said,  "Tell  me  by  what  magic  you  found 
me!" 

"I'm  a  queer  codger.  I  have  a  strange 
memory  for  sounds.  Possibly  because  I've 
lived  much  in  the  open.  My  leaves  were 
generally  spent  in  the  jungles.  Foliage 
moving — I  can  tell  almost  instantly  whether 
it  is  the  wind  or  animal  life.  The  same 
with  the  crackling  of  a  twig.  Sometimes 
the  recurrence  of  a  sound  confuses  me. 
There  may  be  some  difficulty  in  placing  it. 
But  I  know  I  have  heard  the  sound  before." 

Then  he  produced  the  photograph.  She 
stared  at  it  bewilderedly.  Sound?  What 
was  he  talking  about? 

"You  found  me  by  that?  But  vou  did 
not  hear  that!" 

"Still,  it  recalled  a  sound." 

Her  glance  fell  on  the  photograph  again. 
She  had  forgotten  the  posing  for  it.  This 
was  not  the  sort  of  denouement  she  wanted; 
he  had  found  her  quite  ordinarily.  Yet 
she  could  not  make  him  out.  This  was  not 
the  man  she  had  known  on  the  Nippon 
Maru,  the  boy  who  had  been  like  crystal 

213 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

or  an  open  book.  This  was  an  inscrutable 
stranger,  of  velvet  and  steel. 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  she  said.  She 
felt  the  mantle  of  weariness  falling  again 
on  her  shoulders.  The  hide-and-seek  of 
the  encounter  irked  her.  Why  didn't  he 
speak,  demand  questions,  satisfy  her  curios- 
ity? She  was  very  tired.  He  would  never 
know  how  much  awake  she  had  been  on 
that  journey.  She  had  walked  the  car 
corridors  at  all  hours;  she  had  watched  for 
Berta  to  pass  the  crack  in  the  door  until 
the  concentration  had  made  her  dizzy.  She 
was  tired,  and  she  hadn't  the  power  to 
resist  her  own  curiosity.  She  flung  open 
Bluebeard's  door  recklessly.  "I  begin  to 
understand." 

"What?" 

"Why  you  were  sent  on  this  hazardous, 
mission.  You  are  quite  sufficient  unto 
yourself.  I  believed  I  was  doing  a  fine, 
brave  thing." 

"  Ah,  but  it  was  a  fine,  brave  thing.  You 
made  it  possible  for  me  to  go  on.  Secret 
service!" 

"It  would  be  useless  to  deny  it."  She 
leaned  on  her  elbows,  locking  her  ringless  fin- 
gers under  her  chin.  "It's  not  generally 

214 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

known,  but  I  am  of  Danish  stock.  I  came 
to  America  when  I  was  very  little.  I  spoke 
no  English.  There  were  lean  years;  yes, 
even  poverty.  But  I  had  a  little  talent — 
the  faculty  of  making  people  smile.  Not 
all  aliens  are  ungrateful.  This  is  now  my 
country.  I  love  it!"  Her  eyes  flashed. 
"It  made  me  all  I  am,  gave  me  all  I  have. 
It  has  been  glorious  to  me.  Long  ago  I 
vowed  if  ever  the  chance  came  I  would  pay 
back  these  benefactions — with  my  life  if 
need  be!" 

Mathison's  conduct  was  logical  enough. 
All  he  had  wanted  was  to  see  her,  hear  her 
voice  for  a  little  while,  get  one  absolute 
fact,  a  fact  she  could  not  withhold  from 
him,  being  unaware  of  what  he  was  seek- 
ing. He  would  satisfy  his  curiosity,  dis- 
perse these  mysteries,  after  his  work  was 
done.  Before  this  night  was  over  one  of 
two  things  was  going  to  happen.  He  was 
going  to  succeed  or  he  was  going  to  be  badly 
hurt.  He  now  had  a  tolerably  keen  insight 
into  the  character  of  this  glorious  woman. 
She  was  brave  and  resourceful.  The  slight- 
est hint  of  what  was  on  foot  and  she  might 
seek  to  intervene,  with  the  best  of  inten- 
tions, and  spoil  everything.  But  day  after 

215 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

tomorrow — when  he  returned  from  Wash- 
ington! 

"  It  is  very  wonderful  to  be  here  to-night," 
he  said. 

After  that  her  heart  grew  warm  again. 
She,  too,  knew  the  value  of  sounds.  At 
least  he  was  grateful.  That  weapon  in  his 
pocket — she  longed  to  ask  him  about  that. 
But  a  question  here  might  alarm  him.  He 
must  not  suspect  the  plan  she  had  in  her 
head.  Logically  the  great  adventure  was 
at  an  end;  but  they  may  have  threatened 
his  life.  She  stood  up. 

"I'm  a  brute!"  he  cried,  contritely.  "I 
forgot  that  you  must  be  weary  beyond 
measure." 

He  held  the  sable  coat  for  her,  particu- 
larly careful  not  to  touch  her.  As  she  was 
wrapping  the  veil  about  her  hair  and  face 
he  asked  if  he  might  come  to  tea  the  day 
after. 

"I'll  tell  you.  In  a  little  while  I  shaU  be 
in  the  thick  of  it.  I  may  not  come  back. 
In  my  room  at  the  hotel  I've  a  little  Rajpu- 
tana  parrakeet — green  as  an  emerald.  Fact 
is,  he's  the  only  pal  I  have  to-day.  He 
hates  the  sea.  May  I  give  him  to  you?" 

She  trembled.     "Tome?"    Malachi! 

216 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"Yes — that  is,  if  you'd  like  him.  He 
talks.  Wait."  He  fumbled  about  in  a 
pocket.  "Here's  a  little  feather  of  his.  It 
will  give  you  an  idea  of  what  a  brilliant  color 
he  has.  May  I  give  him  to  you?" 

"Yes!"  The  blood  whipped  into  her 
throat.  The  girl  he  saw  in  every  port: 
what  about  her?  Why  didn't  he  offer  the 
bird  to  her?  .  .  .  That  feather!  It  wasn't 
humanly  possible  that  he  understood  and 
was  playing  with  her. 

Truth  is  he  was  thousands  of  miles  away 
from  the  message.  But  there  were  other 
roads  to  Rome ;  and  he  knew  what  he  knew. 

"Then  I  may  come  to  tea  day  after  to- 
morrow?" 

"Yes,"  She  turned  away  from  the  table. 
Upon  reaching  the  curb  she  wheeled  upon 
Mathison.  "My  car!"  she  cried,  dismayed. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"It  isn't  here!" 

Mathison  hailed  the  footman.  "What 
has  become  of  Miss  Farrington's  car?" 

"Why,  sir,  she  gave  orders  to  dismiss  it!" 

Mathison  returned  to  Miss  Farrington. 
"Some  mistake.  They've  dismissed  it." 

"Taxi,  sir?"  said  a  man  at  Mathison's 
elbow. 

15  217 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

' '  Yes.  Here,  Miss  Farrington ;  j ump  into 
this.  Day  after  to-morrow  at  four.  Good 
night." 

"But  you  are  coming  with  me!" 

"No." 

"I  say  yes!" 

"No." 

"Then  I'll  walk  to  the  Subway— four 
blocks.  I  shall  ruin  my  dress,  my  shoes, 
and  my  temper.  I  am  going  to  take  you 
back  to  the  hotel." 

The  last  place  in  the  world  Mathison 
intended  going  at  this  hour.  The  devil 
and  the  deep  blue  sea!  He  was  confident 
that  she  would  do  just  as  she  threatened — 
walk.  But  this  he  knew:  the  moment  he 
entered  this  taxi  it  would  become  a  trap — 
a  trap  he  would  jump  into  with  the  greatest 
cheerfulness,  alone.  What  to  do?  He  could 
not  give  her  any  warning,  with  the  strange 
chauffeur's  ear  scarcely  a  foot  off.  And 
under  no  circumstances  must  the  blond  man 
see  Norma  Farrington's  face  this  night. 

"A  compromise,"  he  said,  believing  he 
had  found  a  solution  to  the  difficulty.  "I'll 
go  with  you  if  you  will  let  me  take  you  home 
first." 

"Agreed!"  she  cried,  readily.    She  smiled 

218 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

in  the  dark  of  the  cab.  This  was  exactly 
what  she  wanted.  Once  at  the  apart- 
ment, she  would  discharge  this  taxi  and 
order  one  she  was  tolerably  sure  of. 

He  laughed  and  sprang  into  the  cab.  The 
snow  was  coming  down  thickly.  Corners 
were  dim;  the  street-lamps  hung  in  a  kind 
of  pearly  twilight.  A  strange  silence  fell 
upon  them. 

I  don't  suppose  either  of  them  marked 
the  turns.  Perhaps  the  impenetrable  haze 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  You  are  not 
ordinarily  attracted  by  nebulous  objects. 
Again,  it  might  have  been  due  to  the  fact 
that  they  were  both  fatalists.  Suddenly 
the  cab  stopped  with  a  slewing  jerk.  The 
door  opened.  The  man  who  opened  it 
presented  his  arm  stiffly.  Neither  Miss 
Farrington  nor  Mathison  had  to  be  in- 
formed regarding  that  blue-black  bit  of 
metal  at  the  end  of  that  arm.  She  shrank 
back,  but  not  in  fear.  Her  idea  was  to 
give  Mathison  all  the  elbow  room  he  might 
require. 

"Step  out,  both  of  you,  with  your  hands 
up — quickly!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"T~"\O  what  you  think  best,"  she  mur- 

I  J  mured  across  Mathison's  shoulder. 
"  Please  do  not  consider  me  at  all." 

But  Mathison  stepped  out  tamely,  his 
hands  above  his  head.  She  followed, 
slightly  chilled.  Her  arms  hung  at  her  side. 
This  was  not  quite  as  she  would  have  had 
it.  Why  didn't  he  attempt  to  distract  the 
man  with  the  automatic — arguments,  pro- 
tests, threats?  There  was  always  a  chance. 
She  was  not  afraid  of  pistol-shots,  and  he 
ought  to  know  that.  Chilled  and  disap- 
pointed, she  stood  beside  him. 

"The  lady  will  put  up  her  hands  also." 
Nothing  of  the  speaker's  face  could  be  seen, 
only  his  pale-blue  eyes,  which  snapped 
frostily  over  the  rim  of  the  black  handker- 
chief. 

"The  lady  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind, 
for  the  obvious  reason  that  the  cut  of  her 

coat  will  not  permit  it." 
220 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

Mathison  tightened  his  lips.     Unafraid! 

"Brandt!" 

The  chauffeur  jumped  down  from  the 
taxicab. 

" Search  them  for  weapons." 

The  chauffeur  rifled  Mathison's  pockets, 
and  tossed  the  heavy  Colt  to  his  superior. 
Then  he  seized  Miss  Farrington  by  the  arm. 
He  started  to  run  his  free  hand  over  her, 
when  she  struck  his  cheek  with  a  lively 
report. 

"No  man  shall  touch  me  like  that!" 

Mathison  intervened.  "Just  a  moment. 
I'll  keep  my  hands  up,  but  on  condition 
that  no  indignity  shall  be  offered  this  lady. 
Otherwise  you  will  have  to  shoot  me." 

"No  indignity  will  be  offered  the  lady. 
So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  she  does  not 
exist.  Her  word  that  she  is  unarmed,  and 
no  one  shall  touch  her." 

"  I  give  it."  A  diversion  for  his  sake,  and 
he  had  not  taken  profit!  What  was  the 
meaning  of  this  singular  tameness? 

"March  up  those  steps,  both  of  you. 
The  lady  will  have  to  share  your  luck  until 
it  is  advisable  to  release  you.  March!" 

Mathison  put  his  arm  under  Miss  Far- 

rington's  and  helped  her  up  the  icy  steps. 
221 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

In  the  faintest  whisper:  "Do  not  lift  up 
your  veil  while  in  this  house.  There  is 
danger.  Do  not  speak  unless  I  give  you 
the  lead." 

The  door  opened  to  admit  them  and 
they  stood  in  a  dimly  lighted  hallway. 

"The  parlor;  you  will  find  it  comfortable." 

Inside  the  parlor  Mathison  was  ordered 
to  halt.  With  a  detached  air  he  obeyed. 
Miss  Farrington  shuddered.  She  saw  the 
man  in  the  black  handkerchief  search  the 
little  pocket  at  the  top  of  Mathison 's 
trousers  and  extract  a  bit  of  paper,  folded. 
What  was  it? 

"A  long  chase,  but  we  are  patient.  The 
receipt! . . .  Yankee  swine!"  The  man  struck 
Mathison  across  the  mouth,  stepped  back 
quickly,  the  automatic  ready. 

Mathison  did  not  stir,  but  his  tan  faded; 
and  presently  a  thin  trickle  of  blood  ran 
down  his  chin. 

"You  despicable  coward!"  she  cried. 
"How  like  the  Hun!" 

"Be  silent!  Your  immunity  is  not  irrev- 
ocable." 

A  receipt  of  deposit!  She  understood 
now.  A  receipt  of  deposit  for  that  manila 

envelope.    To  have  come  all  this  way,  and 

222 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

then  lose!  And  it  came  to  her  like  a  blow 
that  she  herself  was  directly  the  cause. 
He  had  not  wanted  to  get  into  the  taxi,  and 
she  had  forced  him.  In  trying  to  save  him 
she  had  merely  led  him  to  defeat.  But 
the  tameness,  when  she  knew  that  he  was 
quick  as  light! 

"You  will  be  detained  about  an  hour. 
A  telephone-call  will  release  you.  Madame, 
my  thanks.  You  made  everything  very- 
easy  for  us.  Without  your  innocent  as- 
sistance there  might  have  been  difficulties. 
Unwittingly,  you  have  entered  the  war 
zone,  with  casualties." 

Then,  with  an  ironical  wave  of  the  hand, 
the  man  in  the  black  handkerchief  stepped 
forth  and  closed  the  door. 

Mathison  pulled  out  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  his  lips,  turning  gradually  so  that 
his  back  was  toward  the  double  doors. 

"I  could  cry!"  she  said.     "All  my  fault!" 

Mathison  laid  a  warning  finger  on  his 
bruised  lips.  Instinctively  he  knew  that 
he  was  being  watched.  The  affair  wasn't 
over  yet 

"Please  don't  feel  badly.  The  fortunes 
of  war.  The  thing  is  done.  Don't  bother 
any  more  about  it." 

223 


THE  ^YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"But  you  wouldn't  have  surrendered  like 
this  if  I  hadn't  been  with  you!" 

"I'd  have  put  up  some  kind  of  a  scrap, 
I  suppose.  I  should  have  kept  my  head, 
and  didn't." 

"But  through  fault  of  mine  .  .  ." 

"It  might  have  been  worse,"  he  inter- 
rupted. "They  didn't  hurt  you.  I'll  be 
given  my  destroyer.  I'm  a  good  navigator. 
Better  take  off  your  coat;  otherwise  you  will 
feel  it  when  you  go  out."  He  laid  his  hands 
on  her  shoulders — and  whispered:  "Be  on 
your  guard !  They  must  not  know  that  you 
know.  Follow  my  leads.  They  are  watch- 
ing or  listening." 

"I'll  keep  the  coat  on."  She  sat  down, 
trembling. 

He  began  to  walk  about.  From  time  to 
time  he  touched  his  lips  with  his  handker- 
chief. 

She  watched  him.  All  through  the  night  he 
had  puzzled  her  as  no  man  had  ever  puzzled 
her  before.  She  knew  that  he  was  strong, 
resourceful,  courageous.  And  yet  he  had 
taken  that  blow  on  the  mouth  without 
comment,  without  a  sign  of  wrath.  Re- 
sourceful, he  had  carried  that  receipt  with 
him.  Her  fault,  directly  and  indirectly. 

224 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

His  discovery  that  Norma  Farrington — 
Hilda  Nordstrom — and  The  Yellow  Ty- 
phoon were  two  individuals  had  befogged 
his  foresight.  He  had  probably  dashed  out 
of  the  hotel  with  no  thought  but  of  finding 
her.  It  would  have  been  the  simplest  thing 
in  the  world  to  leave  the  receipt  in  the  key- 
box.  Beaten  because  of  her! 

"Think  of  finding  you!"  he  said.  He 
covered  the  length  of  the  room  again.  "No 
doubt  you  think  I'm  a  queer  codger.  The 
fact  is  I  never  waste  time  or  energy  in 
wailing.  When  I  lose  I  pay.  When  I  win 
I  pocket  the  stakes.  I  never  drop  out  of  a 
game,  once  I  take  up  the  cards."  He  sat 
down  beside  her.  "Do  you  believe  in  love 
at  first  sight?" 

Good  Heavens!  But  she  managed  to 
say,  calmly,  "In  a  play?"  She  lifted  the 
veil  to  the  tip  of  her  nose.  "Oh  yes.  It 
goes  very  well  that  way."  A  cue?  Very 
good;  she  would  follow  up  this  bewildering 
lead,  even  if  her  heart  did  begin  to  act 
queerly. 

"I  mean  in  real  life." 

"I  never  fell  in  love  with  any  one  off- 
stage; so  I'm  not  in  a  position  to  speak. 
The  trouble  with  me  is  I  have  a  fatal  gift 

225 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

of  reading  men  at  a  glance.  I  have  always 
revolted  at  the  idea  of  marrying  a  man  I 
knew  all  about  on  my  wedding-day.  He 
must  be  a  fine  story-book — to  be  read  a  page 
at  a  time,  to  offer  a  mystery  tantalizing 
enough  to  create  a  longing  to  solve  it.  And 
if  I  ever  do  marry  I  shall  go  on  with  my 
work.  Why?  Because  I  shall  always  be 
puzzling  him  just  a  little.  In  marriage 
absolute  knowledge  always  makes  for  dull- 


ness." 


Of  all  the  amazing,  heartrending  subjects 
to  select !  And  she  could  not  tell  him  that  he 
was  hurting  her  dreadfully.  .  .  .  His  poor 
lips!  All  her  fault. 

That  voice!  he  thought.  In  his  ears  it 
was  sweeter  than  the  intoning  of  choirs  in 
cathedrals.  He  glanced  at  his  wrist-watch. 
Probably  the  man  was  at  the  desk,  present- 
ing the  receipt.  God  send  he  did  not  pass 
the  job  on  to  a  confederate!  In  twenty 
minutes,  perhaps,  the  call  would  come  for 
their  release.  Mathison  ran  his  tongue 
over  his  throbbing  lips.  Then  he  smiled — a 
smile  through  which  his  teeth  flashed 
whitely. 

She,  watching  him,  waited  for  him  to 
carry  on.  His  bent  head  was  so  close  that 

226 


it  was  hard  to  resist  that  old  inclination — 
to  touch  it  with  her  hand.  All  this  talk 
about  love!  .  .  .  He  was  merely  passing  the 
time.  But  when  she  saw  that  smile  her 
eyes  widened  behind  her  veil.  It  was  a 
terrible  smile,  savage,  relentless,  and  con- 
fident! 

And  then,  in  one  of  those  blinding  rib- 
bons of  light  that  flash  across  the  storms, 
she  saw  distinctly  the  meaning  of  the  whole 
affair.  Each  time  the  recollection  of  the 
manila  envelope  returned  to  her  mind  fog 
enshrouded  it.  She  could  see  nothing  but 
a  childish  whim  in  the  superscriptions  and 
decorations.  His  own  name  and  rank 
sprawled  across  the  middle  and  a  photo- 
graph at  each  end — of  himself  in  mufti  and 
uniform.  The  Machiavellian  cunning  of 
it!  Boy!  Would  she  ever  be  able  to  caU 
him  that  again?  She  thrilled. 

"What  shall  I  call  you?  Lieutenant- 
commander  is  so  formal  and  Mister  is  an 
abomination." 

"Call  me  John.  My  mother  thought  it 
a  good  name." 

"Not  Jack?" 

"Too  many  Jacks  in  the  navy.  I'd  like 
very  much  if  you'd  call  me  John." 

227 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Mathison.  I  believe  for  the  present 
I'll  call  you  Mathison.  That's  comrade-y. 
And  day  after  to-morrow  we  shall  have  tea 
together." 

"And  I'll  bring  Malachi.  But  I  warn 
you  he  swears  dreadfully  sometimes,  when 
he's  happy." 

"I'd  love  him!"  She  laughed.  A  few 
moments  ago  she  hadn't  believed  she  could 
ever  laugh  again  joyously.  After  all,  what 
did  her  affairs  amount  to  in  this  great  game? 
She  was  an  infinitesimal  grain  of  sand,  in- 
considerable. A  trap  for  his  enemy,  and 
she  had  almost  spoiled  it.  And  casually 
he  had  said  he  had  a  few  loose  threads  to 
pick  up! 

She  was  reasonably  certain  now  that  all 
recollection  of  the  old  lady  on  the  Nippon 
Maru  had  passed  from  his  mind.  Why  not? 
Why  should  a  young  man  of  thirty  keep 
fresh  in  his  memory  an  old  woman  osten- 
sibly sixty?  He  had  found  Hilda  Nord- 
strom, and  that  was  sufficient  for  the  pres- 
ent. 

"Did  I  see  the  red  and  blue  lights  of  a 
drug-store  down  the  street  as  we  came 
along?" 

"I  don't  remember." 

228 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

The  double  doors  rolled  back  smoothly 
and  The  Yellow  Typhoon  stepped  into  the 
room,  sending  the  doors  shut  again.  She 
leaned  with  her  back  against  one  of  the 
doors,  and  the  crooked  smile  on  her  lips 
almost  hid  the  little  mole. 

Mathison  was  on  his  feet  immediately, 
his  nerves  singing.  All  along  he  had  expect- 
ed such  a  moment;  and  yet,  now  that  it  had 
come,  it  stupefied  him.  He  stood  so  that 
he  partially  covered  Miss  Farrington.  He 
wondered  if  any  man  had  ever  before  been 
confronted  by  such  a  situation.  He  man- 
aged to  throw  a  bit  of  gallantry  into  his 
bow. 

"And  how  is  the  jealous  husband  to- 
night?" 

"He  is  doing  nicely  at  this  moment, 
thank  you.  You  and  the  lady  are  free  to 

go." 

"Ah!" 

Mathison  started  to  turn,  but  stopped, 
fascinated  by  the  singular  change  which 
was  passing  over  the  face  of  the  woman  in 
front  of  him.  Slowly  her  hands  reached 
out  on  each  side,  fingers  spread;  her  body 
seemed  to  shrink. 

"Hilda?" 

229 


CHAPTER  XV 

MATHISON  stepped  aside,  not  only 
physically,  but  figuratively.  He  saw 
that  for  a  little  while  he  was  to  be  an  out- 
sider. There  was  a  strange  tragedy  here, 
and  it  was  going  to  be  threshed  out  imme- 
diately. The  attitude  of  the  two  women 
was  a  dead  reckoning  that  there  were  ac- 
counts to  settle.  Already  they  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  him. 

Of  course  he  had  known,  or  at  least  sus- 
pected, that  these  two  remarkable  women 
were  sisters — twins.  From  the  moment  he 
had  discovered  that  posed  photograph, 
located  The  Yellow  Typhoon  in  this  very 
house,  established  the  fact  that  Norma 
Farrington  was  acting  on  the  stage  that 
night,  he  had  known. 

From  where  he  stood,  ill  at  ease  and  rest- 
less, he  could  see  the  two  faces.  So  alike 
that,  separately,  it  was  impossible  to  tell 
which  was  which  or  that  there  were  two. 

230 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Witness  his  own  adventures  in  that  hotel 
room.  The  detective  had  declared  that 
two  women  had  mounted  that  fire-escape 
because  he  had  seen  nothing  but  footprints. 
But  the  two  together,  as  Mathison  now  saw 
them!  The  one  with  the  white  soul  of  her 
shining  in  her  face;  the  other — a  sphinx. 
Hilda — he  would  never  think  of  her  as 
Norma  again — a  white  page  with  a  beauti- 
ful poem  written  thereon;  the  other,  a  page 
with  a  cryptogram.  A  miracle;  he  could 
call  it  nothing  else;  a  physical  allegory,  the 
good  fairy  and  the  bad.  The  forest  pool 
that  slaked  your  thirst;  the  lying  mirage  of 
the  desert.  And  yet  the  mirage  was  no  less 
glorious  to  the  eye  than  the  honest  pool. 
He  knew  he  would  never  again  mistake  the 
one  for  the  other. 

The  shock  over,  the  reality  confirmed, 
The  Yellow  Typhoon  gathered  her  shat- 
tered forces.  She  folded  her  arms,  and  her 
body  seemed  to  expand. 

"  Hilda ! .  .  .  Well,  why  not?  I  knew  that 
if  I  returned  to  New  York  our  paths  would 
cross  again.  I  did  not  will  it.  But  what 
will  be  will  be.  Always  meddling,  always 
trying  to  thwart  me!" 

"Yes,  Berta;  the  same  old  Hilda,  always 

231 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

bearing  the  brunt  of  your  misdeeds,  always 
sacrificing  herself  to  shield  you  ...  to  save 
the  mother  a  hurt.  For  what  I  did  never 
hurt  her;  she  loved  you,  tolerated  me.  And 
the  bitter  irony  of  it  all  lies  in  the  fact 
that  she  would  have  stood  away  from  you 
but  for  my  sacrifices,  which  misled  her. 
Yes,  I  am  Hilda." 

"You!"  rasped  Berta.  "It  was  you, 
then,  who  wore  that  kimono !  You,  turned 
Yankee  swine!" 

"I,  who  have  sworn  loyalty  to  the  land 
you  would  betray.  I  tried  to  save  you, 
but  you  would  not  have  it." 

"Save  me?  On  the  contrary,  your  safety 
depends  upon  my  good  nature.  I  hold  you 
and  this  mollycoddle  in  the  palm  of  my 
hand.  Take  care!" 

"You  never  could  frighten  me,  Berta. 
You  know  that.  Eight  years !  Do  you  real- 
ize that  you  have  been  dead  eight  years?" 

"There  are  many  kinds  of  death — some  of 
our  own  choosing,"  said  Berta,  insolently. 

"I  mean  the  dead  who  never  more  return. 
Eight  years  ago  the  mother  and  I  buried 
you  in  Greenwood." 

"What?"  explosively.  "What  are  you 
telling  me?" 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"The  Berta  who  was  found  in  the  river, 
recognizable  only  by  the  dress  she  wore  and 
the  locket.  And  every  spring  the  mother 
goes  there  with  flowers.  Your  ghost  is  not 
pleasant  to  see,  Berta.  The  horror  of  that 
night  in  Shanghai,  when  I  learned  the  truth, 
that  you  were  alive,  notorious !  The  owner 
of  a  gambling-house  in  the  Honan  Road! 
Nightmare!  Who  was  it  we  buried?"  Hilda 
stepped  forward  menacingly. 

Fine  steel  and  hammered  brass,  thought 
Mathison.  He  could  not  touch  the  woman 
of  brass  now;  she  was  Hilda's  sister,  and 
Hilda  should  say  what  should  be  done.  Nor 
could  he  smother  the  spark  of  admiration. 
Bad  she  might  be,  ruthless  and  predatory, 
but  she  was  no  weakling.  Whatever  her 
end,  she  would  meet  it  hotly.  He  saw  that 
Hallowell  had  been  stronger  than  Samson, 
since  this  Delilah  had  not  shorn  his  locks. 

Sisters  who  had  not  seen  each  other  in 
eight  years — deadly  antagonists !  He  could 
not  help  philosophizing  a  little  over  this 
phenomenon  of  life.  Sisters  and  brothers; 
the  long  roll  of  bitter  tragedies  from  the  day 
Cain  grew  jealous  of  Abel!  He  wished  he 
was  elsewhere.  It  was  sacrilege  to  witness 
the  baring  of  two  souls. 

16  233 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Who  was  it  we  buried?"  repeated  Hilda. 

Berta  frowned.  Eight  years,  a  long 
tune  to  remember  the  trivial  incidents  as- 
sociated with  the  abandonment  of  her  peo- 
ple. All  at  once  her  eyes  flashed  and  a 
corner  of  her  lip  went  up  in  a  twisted  smile. 
"I  remember  now.  I  gave  the  old  clothes 
and  the  locket  to  a  creature  on  the  street. 
So  she  killed  herself,  and  I  am  dead!  No 
wonder  you  left  me  in  peace!" 

"Thief!"  cried  Hilda,  flaming.  "You 
cold-blooded  thief!  You  took  the  last 
jewel  that  mother  had  and  pawned  it — the 
jewel  she  had  been  clinging  to  desperately — 
the  last  link  to  the  life  she  had  known.  The 
tragedy  was  nothing  to  you.  You  pawned 
it  to  buy  a  new  dress,  a  new  hat.  What 
was  her  love  for  you?  Something  for  you 
to  prey  upon;  and,  having  preyed  upon  the 
last  morsel,  you  took  wing,  like  the  kite  you 
are!  I  discovered  what  had  become  of  the 
jewel.  Without  her  knowing  it,  I  worked 
nights  for  months  to  reclaim  it.  Then  I 
'found'  it.  I  would  waste  my  breath  if  I 
cried  'Shame!1" 

"Then  don't  waste  your  breath,  Hilda. 
Shame?  I  am  my  father's  daughter,  and 
I  take  what  pleases  me  when  and  where  I 

234 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

find  it.  I  ran  away  because  I  was  tired  of 
poverty,  tired  of  you  all.  I  hated  you  be- 
cause you  were  always  whining  at  my  elbow 
not  to  do  this  and  not  to  do  that.  Fine 
music!  We  were  born  in  an  hour  of  hate 
and  terror.  I  am  the  daughter  of  my 
father,  a  noble;  you  are  the  daughter  of  a 
Copenhagen  circus-rider.  I  am  a  law  unto 
myself,  and  you  are  the  puppet  of  circum- 
stances. Love  my  mother?  Love  any- 
thing? I  don't  know.  But  I  have  avenged 
her.  I  have  made  mankind  pay  for  the  blows 
my  father  dealt  her.  And  I  never  forgave 
her  for  not  claiming  her  rights  when  father 
died.  We  might  have  grown  up  in  comfort, 
and  her  stupid  pride  kept  us  in  rags.  I  did 
not  ask  to  be  born;  my  birth  was  not  my 
will.  Flesh  and  blood?  What  is  life  but 
an  accident?  Selfish?  Who  would  look 
out  for  Berta  but  Berta?  I  am  myself,  no 
more,  no  less;  and  the  path  I  travel  is  of 
my  own  choosing.  Life!  I  have  lived. 
No  law  can  take  that  away  from  me.  You 
have  called  me  the  kite.  What  is  the  kite 
but  cousin  to  the  eagle?  Look  back.  Did 
I  ever  cringe,  whine?  If  a  blow  was  struck, 
did  I  not  always  strike  back?  The  fault 
is  you  were  always  trying  to  pour  me  into 

235 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

another  mold.  I  had  already  been  poured. 
What  you  wanted  of  me  was  something  like 
this  fool  parrakeet — something  content  to 
live  in  a  cage.  Not  for  Berta  Nordstrom! 
I  don't  know  what  my  end  shall  be,  but  it 
will  be  a  free  end." 

A  wave  of  pity  surged  over  Mathison. 
For  Hilda's  sake  he  had  contemplated  let- 
ting this  wild,  untamed  thing  go;  and  now 
for  the  same  reason  he  would  not  dare  let 
her  go.  There  was  a  chill  of  fear,  too. 
There  was  no  knowing  how  far  this  rising 
fury  might  carry  The  Yellow  Typhoon. 
Never  would  he  forget  this  picture.  The 
angel  and  the  destroyer;  the  same  blood, 
the  same  physical  perfections — sisters !  And 
beyond  the  blood-tie,  total  strangers.  And 
for  days  he  had  been  shuttlecock  to  their 
battledores;  the  one  trying  to  save  him,  the 
other  trying  to  break  him. 

"One  question,"  he  interrupted,  grimly. 

Berta  whirled  upon  him.     " Ask  it!" 

"Had  you  a  hand  in  Bob  Hallo  well's 
death?" 

"If  I  had  I'd  answer,  wouldn't  I!  No. 
But  I  had  killed  him  a  thousand  times  in 
my  heart.  I  hated  him  above  all  other  men. 
Men  call  me  The  Yellow  Typhoon.  I  ac- 

236 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

cept.  Woe  to  those  who  stand  in  my  way. 
If  I  did  not  break  Hallowell,  I  spoiled  his 
life.  And  I  have  beaten  you.  You  and 
your  sanctimonious  Hallowell !  Fools,  I  had 
but  to  crook  my  finger  and  how  beautifully 
you  danced!  I'd  have  twisted  you  around 
my  finger  with  half  a  chance." 

"Berta,  do  you  ever  stop  to  think?" 

The  Yellow  Typhoon  laughed.  "A  ser- 
mon? Save  it." 

"No  regret,  no  pity?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  my  regrets  .  . .  failures.  But 
if  you  mean  do  I  regret  you  and  the  past,  a 
thousand  times  no.  You  say  I  have  returned 
from  the  grave.  You  have  yourself  to  thank 
for  that.  I  had  almost  forgotten  you.  I 
promise  you  that  I  shall  seek  the  mother." 

"Take  care,  Berta!  I  am  my  father's 
daughter,  too!" 

"A  threat?" 

Mathison  began  to  grow  alarmed.  Never 
had  he  felt  the  danger  so  near.  If  Hilda 
suspected  the  game  he  was  playing  and 
dropped  a  single  hint,  they  were  lost;  he, 
at  any  rate.  The  Secret  Service  would  not 
strike  until  he  was  out  of  this  house.  Such 
had  been  his  order.  But  if  this  madwoman 
caught  one  glimmer  of  the  truth! 

237 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Come,  Miss  Farrington,"  he  said. 

"Very  well.  But  always  remember  I 
tried  to  save  you,  Berta." 

"Farrington,  Farrington!  And  I  had 
all  but  forgotten!  One  of  the  men  here 
told  me.  Farrington,  the  Broadway  celeb- 
rity, rich  and  famous!  Oh,  if  I  but  had 
the  time!" 

"To  injure  me?  You  will  not  find  it, 
Berta." 

"No?  Wait  and  see.  To-morrow  I  shall 
search  for  the  mother." 

"You  shall  never  find  her.  I  wish  you 
no  evil.  After  all,  you  are  still  the  child 
that  was  always  touching  the  stove.  Take 
care  of  yourself;  and  good-by  forever, 
sister." 

In  reply  The  Yellow  Typhoon  sped  across 
to  the  hall  door,  which  opened  with  such 
violence  that  the  knob  was  shattered. 

"Go!  I  am  ordered  to  free  you.  But 
for  that!  ...  Go!  Meddle  no  more  with  my 
affairs,  Hilda  Nordstrom!" 

Hilda  passed  into  the  hall.  Mathison 
ran  ahead  and  unslipped  the  door-chain; 
and  a  moment  later  they  stood  on  the  side- 
walk, shadowy  to  each  other  in  the  blinding 
snow. 

238 


CHAPTER  XVI 

QTRAIGHTWAY  Mathison  put  his  arm 
O  under  hers  and  began  plowing  along 
through  the  snow,  which  was  more  than 
ankle-deep.  As  his  stride  was  long,  she 
slipped  and  staggered  to  keep  pace  with 
him.  There  was  a  comforting  strength  in 
that  arm  of  his. 

The  tension  over,  the  encounter  past,  her 
mind  was  like  her  feet,  heavy  and  without 
spring.  A  thought,  entering  her  head, 
wandered  about  emptily,  then  went  away. 
Her  brain  was  like  a  vast  cathedral,  with 
one  or  two  lonely  tourists  exploring.  This 
droll  imagery  caused  her  to  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. Mathison  merely  tightened  his  grip. 

She  was  soul-weary  and  body-weary. 
She  would  have  liked  to  lie  down  in  the 
soft  inviting  snow  and  never  move  again. 
The  drab  future  that  lay  beyond!  What 
might  have  been  could  not  possibly  be  now. 
So  long  as  Berta  lived  Hilda  must  walk  in 

239 


THE   YELLOW    TYPHOON 

her  shadow.  It  did  not  matter  whether 
Berta  roved  free  or  was  locked  up  in  prison. 
And  no  doubt  this  man  at  her  side,  clean- 
cut  and  honorable  above  his  kind,  was 
already  planning  how  to  break  the  slender 
thread  of  their  acquaintance.  Why  not? 
Seeing  her,  would  he  not  always  be  seeing 
Berta,  who  in  his  eyes  was  a  criminal  of  a 
dangerous  type?  From  afar  she  heard  his 
voice. 

"There's  a  drug-store  on  the  next  corner. 
We'll  order  a  taxi  from  there.  Your  feet 
will  be  wet.  ...  I  need  not  tell  you  I'm 
sorry." 

"That  my  feet  are  wet  or  that  the  woman 
you  know  as  The  Yellow  Typhoon  is  my 
twin  sister?  Wliy  bother?  I  ought  to  hate 
her.  Still,  to  me  flesh  and  blood  is  flesh  and 
blood.  She  is  dangerous  and  should  be 
punished;  and  yet  instinct  rebels  at  the 
thought.  Free,  she  will  be  havoc.  I  know 
her  of  old.  Her  furies  when  she  was 
little  were  frightful  because  they  were  al- 
ways calculated.  For  days  I've  been  dread- 
ing the  encounter,  dreading  yet  courting 
it.  It  was  inevitable.  Flesh  and  blood! 
What  was  God's  idea?  My  poor  mother! 
She  has  been  through  so  much;  and  now  this 

240 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

must  strike  her.  She  was  a  circus-rider  in 
the  Copenhagen  hippodrome,  beautiful  and 
admired.  My  father  won  and  married  her 
because  it  pleased  his  vanity.  He  tired  of 
her  within  a  month.  Then  he  beat  her. 
He  was  half  Prussian.  Tortured  and  dis- 
carded her.  Is  there  anything  in  prenatal 
influence?  They  say  not.  Yet  look  at 
Berta!  My  father's  soul.  I  don't  under- 
stand!" brokenly. 

"I  am  terribly  sorry.  An  impasse;  and  I 
don't  know  which  way  to  turn.  She  is  a 
dangerous  enemy,  and  this  is  war.  For 
your  sake  I  want  to  let  her  go,  back  to 
the  East.  For  my  country's  sake  I  can- 
not. She  must  pay  the  grim  reckoning. 
I  have  some  influence.  There  will  be  no 
publicity.  I  can  readily  promise  you  that. 
You're  a  brick;  and  I'd  cut  my  hand  off  to 
save  you  this  hurt.  But  I  repeat,  this  is 
war.  Fortunately  the  affair  is  military, 
out  of  the  reach  of  civil  court,  beyond  the 
reporters.  Winnowed  of  all  chaff,  the  grain 
is  that  I'm  powerless.  In  certain  directions 
I  have  tremendous  power,  but  only  as  an 
agent.  I  cannot  judge,  condemn,  or  liber- 
ate. I  am  desperately  sorry.  She  is  the 
wife  or  companion  of  the  man  I  believe 

241 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

killed  my  friend.  She  is  the  woman  who 
gratuitously  spoiled  my  friend's  life.  The 
counts  against  her  are  heavy." 

"I  understand.  You  cannot  break  your 
oath  of  allegiance  for  me;  and  my  oath  of 
allegiance  will  not  permit  you.  But  it  tears 
and  rends.  Still,  she  once  passed  out  of 
my  life  absolutely.  Perhaps  my  concern 
is  for  my  mother.  I  am  numb  with  the 
tragedy  of  it.  Flesh  and  blood,  but  she 
denied  it.  I  tried  to  save  her.  Suppose 
we  let  Berta's  fate  rest  on  the  knees  of  the 
gods?" 

"If  it  is  proven  she  had  nothing  to  do 
with  HallowelTs  death,  there  is  a  chance 
of  merely  interning  her  for  the  duration  of 
the  war." 

"Hallowell!  That  afternoon  he  spoke  to 
me  in  the  Botanical  Gardens.  He  thought 
I  was  Berta.  I  tried  to  save  him,  but  I 
reached  the  villa  too  late.  I  saw  it,  in 
silhouette  on  the  curtains!  I  called,  rang 
the  bell,  shook  the  gate.  Then  the  lights 
went  out.  ...  I  tried  to  save  him!" 

"I  know.  He  was  the  finest  friend  a  man 
ever  had.  And  somewhere  up  there  among 
the  stars  his  spirit  is  at  peace.  John 
Mathison  has  come  through!" 

242 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"  Alone,  all  alone,  without  aid  from  any 
one.  With  an  immeasurable  power  behind 
you,  you  fought  it  out  alone.  It  was  splen- 
did— American!  That  envelope !  The  tame- 
ness  of  your  surrender  hurt.  I  did  not  un- 
derstand until  after  we  were  in  that  house 
and  I  saw  you  smile.  That  receipt  was 
only  a  trap,  a  bait;  and  the  man  you  believe 
killed  Hallowell  walked  blindly  into  it. 
No  one  but  you  could  touch  that  envelope, 
once  it  was  in  a  hotel  safe.  Am  I  right?" 

"The  man  is  a  prisoner  in  my  room  at 
this  moment.  When  we  enter  this  drug- 
store, it  is  a  signal  for  the  raiding  of  that 
house,  fore  and  aft.  A  fly  couldn't  escape. 
We  idiotic  Yankees!  I  have  him.  It  took 
patience.  But  there  was  a  guardian  angel 
watching  over  John  Mathison.  Had  you 
not  warned  me  they  would  have  learned  the 
dance  I  was  leading  them,  and  vanished. 
They  had  me  for  sleep.  I  thought  I  was 
awake,  but  actually  I  was  sleep-walking." 

"Then  I  wasn't  useless,  after  all?" 

"No."  He  smiled  at  the  sky,  at  the  stars 
he  couldn't  see  but  knew  were  there.  Day 
after  to-morrow! 

Mathison  was  a  one-idea  man.  What  I 
mean  is,  when  he  undertook  a  task  he  went 

243 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

at  it  directly,  whole-heartedly;  there  were 
never  any  side  issues. 

Presently  he  spoke  again.  "  There  is  one 
favor  I  must  ask  of  you,  to  tighten  the  noose 
around  this  man's  neck.  Will  you  testify 
before  the  authorities  that  you  found  the 
blue-print  in  his  kit-bag?  Otherwise  I  can- 
not prove  that  it  was  in  his  possession. 
The  theft  of  the  receipt  constitutes  a  mili- 
tary crime;  but  the  blue-print  convicts  him 
of  murder,  either  as  principal  or  accessory. 
I  can  promise  you  there  will  be  no  publicity. 
Will  you  help  me?" 

"I  have  sworn  to." 

"Do  you  know  that  blond  man's  name?" 

"No." 

"Neither  do  I.  Curious  thing.  In  that 
little  red  book  there  are  three  descriptions; 
these  vary  only  in  the  occupations  of  the 
men  described.  All  three  are  bulky,  blond, 
and  ruddy.  Until  now  I  dared  not  be 
inquisitive." 

"And  will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"Ask  it." 

"Let  me  see  it  through." 

"You  mean,  go  back  with  me  to  the 
hotel?" 

"Yes." 

244 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Very  well.  And  you  can  take  Malachi 
home  with  you." 

They  entered  the  drug-store,  stamping 
the  snow  from  their  feet. 

To  be  with  him  just  a  little  while  longer. 
.  .  .  Because  she  loved  him,  she,  Hilda 
Nordstrom,  the  proud!  Not  because  she 
wanted  to,  but  because  it  was  written.  The 
one  man  in  the  world,  and  he  did  not  care. 
Friendly  and  interested,  mystified  until 
now;  and  to-morrow  he  would  go  his  way. 
The  daughter  of  a  circus-rider,  the  sister  of 
The  Yellow  Typhoon.  The  Farrington  was 
no  more;  to  him  she  would  always  be  Hilda 
Nordstrom.  Her  fame  would  not  touch 
him,  for  he  was  without  vanity.  What  had 
her  heart  been  calling  out  through  it  all, 
since  the  miracle  of  the  violets?  "Love 
me!  Love  me!"  She  had  thrown  it  forth 
as  a  hypnotist  throws  the  will.  "Love  me! 
Love  me!"  And  all  the  while  he  was  busy 
with  this  affair  of  the  manila  envelope,  the 
blue-print  and  vengeance.  All  he  had 
sought  her  for  was  to  prove  that  there  were 
two  women,  so  that  he  might  minimize  the 
confusion,  make  no  future  misstep.  Was 
there  another  woman?  Had  he  not  hinted 
at  the  supper-table  that  there  was?  And 

245 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

yet,  on  board  the  Nippon  Maru,  hadn't  he 
told  her  there  was  no  one?  She  just  could 
not  make  him  out.  There,  on  the  Pacific, 
his  every  act  had  been  boyish,  tender, 
whimsical.  Here,  he  was  smiling,  bronze, 
inscrutable,  primordial.  Blood  and  iron. 
The  one  man;  and  he  was  only  friendly,  he 
didn't  care.  When  she  paused  to  analyze 
the  situation,  however,  the  question  arose: 
Why  should  he  care?  As  Hilda  Nordstrom— 
The  Farrington — he  had  known  her  less  than 
three  hours.  It  was  so  hard  to  remember 
that  on  board  the  ship  he  had  been  John 
Mathison  to  her,  but  she  had  been  to  him 
a  baffling,  begoggled  old  lady,  hugging 
shadowy  corners  and  keeping  her  back  to 
the  moon. 

What  had  happened  to  the  world?  Only 
a  little  while  gone — a  few  months — she  had 
been  happy,  gay  with  the  gay,  enjoying 
life,  success,  the  rewards  of  long  and  weary 
endeavor.  And  up  over  the  fair  horizon  had 
risen  The  Typhoon.  Berta,  always  Berta! 

"Pardon!    I  did  not  hear,"  she  said. 

"I  said  I  was  going  to  do  a  bit  of  tele- 
phoning. I'll  round  up  a  taxi.  The  boy 
is  making  you  a  cup  of  hot  chocolate. 
Better  drink  it." 

246 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Oh." 

Mathison  was  gone  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  He  came  back  to  her  smiling.  The 
taxi  was  at  the  curb. 

"  Better  let  me  take  you  straight  home/' 
he  suggested. 

"You  promised." 

"But  to-morrow  .  .  ." 

"To-morrow,"  she  smiled,  "always  takes 
care  of  itself." 

"Come.  After  all,  it  will  be  a  matter  of 
only  a  few  moments.  All  I've  got  to  do  is 
to  run  up  to  the  room  and  give  the  Secret 
Service  men  their  orders.  And  I'll  bring 
down  Malachi.  You  are  sure  you  want 
him?" 

"Of  course  I  am!"  His  little  green 
parrakeet ! 

Later,  when  they  entered  Peacock  Alley 
—totally  deserted  at  this  hour — he  flung 
his  greatcoat  into  a  chair,  pinning  the  green 
ribbon  to  the  breast  of  his  jacket. 

"Suppose  you  sit  here  on  this  divan? 
I  sha'n't  be  gone  more  than  ten  minutes. 
I  ordered  the  taxi  to  wait." 

"Go  along,  sailorman.  And  don't  for- 
get Malachi." 

He  wondered  if  she  realized  how  easily 

247 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

that  name  fell  from  her  lips.  .  .  .  Well,  day 
after  to-morrow!  He  marched  briskly  up 
to  the  desk. 

"Take  a  good  look  at  me/'  he  said  to  the 
clerk;  "then  go  to  the  safe  and  get  the 
manila  envelope  with  my  photographs  on 
it." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  re- 
plied the  clerk,  with  subdued  excitement. 
"The  man  who  presented  the  receipt  is  in 
charge  in  your  rooms."  He  returned  short- 
ly with  the  envelope. 

Mathison  crumpled  it  into  a  pocket.  "Of 
course  you  understand  that  all  these  mys- 
terious actions  have  to  do  with  the  govern- 
ment and  that  there  must  be  absolute 
secrecy  on  the  part  of  the  management." 

"I  have  my  orders  to  that  effect,  sir." 

Mathison  nodded  and  turned  toward  the 
nearest  elevator  shaft. 

In  a  room  on  the  ninth  floor  were  three 
men.  One  sat  near  the  window.  His  arms 
were  folded,  and  in  his  lap  was  a  Colt. 
The  fire-escape  was  outside  this  window. 
In  a  manner  peculiar  to  Americans,  he 
rocked  on  the  rear  legs  of  his  chair;  and 
every  little  while  there  was  a  slight  thud 

248 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

as  the  chair-back  hit  the  wall  or  the  fore- 
legs hit  the  floor.  The  second  man  sat 
with  his  back  toward  the  bathroom.  From 
this  point  of  vantage  he  could  watch  both 
the  entrance  to  the  room  and  the  man  on 
the  bed.  He  evinced  signs  of  boredom,  as 
did  the  face  of  his  companion.  He  was 
toying  with  an  automatic.  He  was  sunk 
in  his  chair,  his  legs  resting  on  the  heels  of 
his  shoes. 

The  prisoner,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  head,  seemed  particularly  interested  in 
a  pattern  on  the  ceiling;  but  in  reality  he 
was  counting  the  thuds  of  the  Secret  Ser- 
vice operative's  chair;  and  out  of  this  sound 
developed  a  daring  campaign  for  liberty. 
Because  he  had  surrendered  docilely,  with- 
out a  sign  of  protest  or  struggle,  he  was  con- 
fident he  had  by  this  time  broken  a  wedge 
into  the  vigilance  of  his  captors.  He  was 
a  big  man,  blond,  but  his  cheeks  were  no 
longer  ruddy. 

On  a  stand  by  the  radiator  Malachi  oc- 
casionally shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot 
to  the  other.  He  didn't  love  anybody,  and 
he  never  was  going  to  love  anybody  again. 
His  nose — or  rather  his  beak — was  thor- 
oughly out  of  joint  with  the  world.  Rooms 

17  249 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

that  swung  high  and  swung  low;  rooms  that 
rattled  and  banged,  the  red  walls  of  which 
hurt  his  eyes;  and  rooms  with  glaring  lights. 
And  always,  just  as  he  believed  his  troubles 
over,  up  went  the  cotton  bag  and  he  was 
off  to  other  surprises.  No;  he  was  never 
going  to  love  anybody  again. 

The  man  near  the  bathroom  inspected 
his  watch.  ''He  ought  to  be  along  now." 

The  man  on  the  bed  sat  up.  Slowly  he 
swung  his  legs  to  the  floor.  He  rubbed  his 
palms  together,  and  the  links  between  the 
manacles  clinked  slightly.  He  stood  up. 

"May  I  go  to  the  bathroom?" 

The  man  in  the  chair  near  the  bathroom 
nodded.  There  was  no  exit  from  the 
bathroom. 

"Leave  the  door  open,"  he  advised. 

Alone,  he  would  have  risen  and  faced  the 
bathroom  door.  But  across  the  room  was 
his  companion,  who,  from  where  he  sat, 
could  see  into  the  bathroom  obliquely. 
Slowly  the  prisoner  passed  the  chair.  He 
was  the  picture  of  dejection.  With  unbe- 
lievable swiftness  in  a  man  so  big  he  turned 
and  threw  his  arms  over  the  Secret  Service 
man's  head,  bringing  the  manacle  chain 
against  his  throat,  murderously,  all  but 

250 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

garroting  him.  The  automatic  had  scarcely 
touched  the  floor  before  the  blond  man, 
releasing  his  victim  and  stooping  behind 
the  chair,  recovered  it. 

Now  comes  the  point  upon  which  his 
endeavor  had  been  based.  When  you  lean 
back  in  a  chair,  to  recover  necessitates  a 
sharp  forward  tilt.  Sometimes  you  get 
all  the  way  down  and  sometimes  you 
have  to  make  a  second  effort.  So  it  hap- 
pened to  the  operative  by  the  window, 
dumfounded  by  the  daring  and  sudden- 
ness of  the  attack.  As  he  threw  himself 
forward  the  second  time  violently  the  auto- 
matic slipped.  He  caught  it,  but  not  quick 
enough. 

"Drop  it!  For  I  shall  shoot  to  kill.  Get 
up.  Now  kick  it  in  my  direction.  Very 
good."  These  words  were  uttered  with 
dispassionate  coolness. 

The  victim  of  the  garroting  was  writhing 
and  coughing  on  the  floor.  He  would  be 
out  of  it  for  several  minutes.  There  was 
only  one  idea  in  his  head — to  get  air  through 
his  tortured  throat. 

To  the  other  operative  the  blond  man 
said:  "I  am  a  desperate  man  and  I  promise 
to  kill  you  if  you  do  not  obey  me  absolutely. 


251 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Unless  I  go  forth  free  I  might  as  well  go 
forth  dead.  It  is  my  life  against  yours. 
Walk  toward  me  with  your  hands  up." 

The  Secret  Service  operative  had  heard 
voices  like  this  before,  and  he  wanted 
to  live.  Moreover,  he  knew  that  every 
exit  would  be  covered  until  the  patrol  ar- 
rived, if  it  were  not  already  at  the  curb. 
At  the  utmost  the  blond  devil's  victory 
would  be  short-lived. 

"You  win,"  he  said,  quietly,  stepping 
forward. 

"Face  the  other  way." 

The  operative  obeyed.  The  manacled 
hands  rose  above  the  unprotected  head 
and  the  gun-butt  came  crashing  down.  The 
operative  slumped  to  the  floor.  The  blond 
man's  subsequent  actions  bespoke  his  thor- 
oughness in  handling  this  kind  of  an  affair. 
He  sought  the  handkerchiefs,  wet  them, 
and  tied  the  operatives'  hands  behind  their 
backs.  Few  fabrics  are  tougher  than  wet 
linen.  The  man  he  had  hit  was  either  dead 
or  insensible;  so  he  paid  no  more  attention 
to  this  unfortunate.  His  interest  was  in  the 
operative  who  was  now  slowly  getting  air 
into  his  lungs.  The  blond  man  threw  him 
on  his  face,  sat  on  him,  then  rifled  the  pock- 

252 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

ets  for  the  manacle  key.  He  found  it  and 
freed  his  wrists.  He  ran  to  the  bathroom 
again  and  returned  with  a  wet  towel  which 
he  wound  about  the  half-strangled  man's 
head.  Next  he  calmly  pocketed  his  be- 
longings which  lay  on  the  bureau-top. 

He  was  reasonably  certain  that  he  could 
not  escape  by  any  of  the  hotel  entrances. 
There  was  only  one  chance.  A  window 
on  the  first  floor,  from  which  he  would  have 
to  risk  a  drop  of  twelve  or  fourteen  feet  to 
the  sidewalk. 

Malachi  was  climbing  up  to  his  swing 
and  clambering  down  to  his  perch. 

The  blond  man,  the  automatic  ready, 
opened  the  door  .  .  .  and  Mathison  stepped 
in!  The  advantage  of  surprise  was  in  this 
instance  on  Mathison's  side.  A  fighting- 
man  of  the  first  order,  he  struck  first.  He 
brought  his  fist  down  hammer-wise  upon 
the  pistol,  at  the  same  time  sending  the  toe 
of  his  boot  to  the  enemy's  knee-cap.  In- 
stinctive actions,  but  both  blows  went 
home.  The  blond  man  was  forced  to  give 
back  in  order  to  set  himself. 

There  began,  then,  in  that  small  room, 
one  of  those  contests  which  the  Blind  Poet 
loved  to  recount  and  which  we  nowadays 

253 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

call  Homeric.  Mathison  was  lighter  than 
his  opponent  by  thirty  pounds,  but  he  gave 
battle  with  a  singing  heart.  This  was  as 
it  should  be,  man  to  man.  No  tedious 
affair  of  the  courts;  cold,  formal  justice. 
Hot  blood  and  bare  hands!  .  .  .  An  eye  for 
an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth ! 

The  blond  man,  as  he  looked  into  Mathi- 
son's  eyes,  sensed  that  he  was  about  to 
fight  for  his  life;  thus  he  became  endowed 
with  a  frenzy  which  doubled  his  strength. 
His  one  blind  endeavor  was  to  get  his 
gorilla  arms  around  this  Yankee  swine 
who  had  tricked  and  beaten  him.  He 
lunged,  head  down.  Mathison  jabbed  him, 
and  with  lightning  speed  shut  the  door  with 
a  backward  kick. 

He  met  the  blond  man  at  every  point; 
boxed  him,  used  his  boots,  employed  the 
science  of  the  Jap  wrestler,  threw  obstacles, 
laughed,  taunted  sailor  fashion;  in  fact, 
fought  with  the  primordial  savagery  of  the 
Stone  Age,  scorning  the  niceties  of  sportsman- 
ship. He  knew  what  his  antagonist  was — a 
Prussian,  or  one  who  had  been  Prussianized. 
And  with  devilish  cunning  and  foresight  he 
carried  the  Prussian  idea  to  this  blond 
giant.  ...  To  kill  him  with  his  bare  hands! 

254 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

The  blond  man's  desperate  swings  landed 
frequently;  for  with  his  eye  upon  a  single 
point,  Mathison  was  often  compelled  to 
expose  his  face.  That  throat!  To  reach  it 
with  that  Japanese  side-cut,  a  blow  that 
saps  and  blinds. 

Once  the  enemy  succeeded  in  gripping 
Mathison's  jacket  where  its  fastenings  met: 
and  Mathison,  wrenching  back,  left  half 
the  front  of  his  smart  jacket  in  the  eager 
hand. 

Bloody,  an  eye  half  closed,  his  lips  puffed 
and  bleeding — but  his  teeth  showing  soundly 
through  the  grotesque  smile — a  gash  across 
his  forehead,  Mathison  continued  to  play 
for  the  throat.  Queer  thing  about  such 
contests:  there  isn't  any  pain  until  it  is 
over. 

A  dozen  times  they  stumbled  over  the 
operatives  on  the  floor.  The  one  with  the 
towel  around  his  head  was  now  alive  and 
tugging  powerfully  at  the  wet  linen  bind- 
ing his  wrists.  Finally  he  managed  to  get 
to  his  feet,  only  to  be  hurled  against  the 
wall. 

The  inconvenience  of  these  obstacles, 
animate  and  inanimate,  reacted  against 
Mathison  as  often  as  it  did  against  his 

255 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

enemy;  and  one  time  Mathison  was  borne 
back  against  the  foot -rail  of  the  bed. 
But  a  violent  thrust  of  his  knee  extricated 
him. 

Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  Mathison 
was  offered  his  opening.  The  operative, 
who  was  still  blinded  by  the  wet  towel, 
rose  again  and  staggered  about.  He  struck 
against  the  blond  man's  shoulder,  and  as 
the  latter  thrust  him  aside  Mathison  struck. 
Not  an  honorable  blow,  this  cut  at  the 
throat;  not  the  sort  white  men  use  in  fisti- 
cuffs. But  I  repeat,  these  two  were  bent 
on  killing  each  other. 

When  you  touch  a  hot  coal  your  hand 
jerks  back.  It  is  reflex  action  purely;  the 
conscious  brain  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
So  it  is  with  the  blow  on  the  Adam's  apple. 
The  hands  fly  to  the  throat  because  they 
must. 

Mathison  did  not  pause  to  note  the  effect 
of  the  stroke.  He  knew  that  it  had  gone 
home.  He  had  been  badly  punished,  but 
he  was  still  fighting  strong.  The  years  of 
clean  living,  of  unsapped  vitality,  were 
paying  dividends  to-night.  He  sent  in  a 
smothering  hail  of  blows,  with  all  the  power 
he  had  left  to  put  behind  them. 

256 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

It  was  now  that  the  other  man  began  to 
realize  that  he  was  no  longer  interested  in  kill- 
ing Mathison,  that  he  sought  only  to  get 
away  from  this  force  and  fury  which  were 
superior  to  his  own.  He  looked  about 
desperately  for  a  corner  to  turn;  but  there 
wasn't  any.  Back  he  went,  back  until  his 
legs  struck  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Even  as 
he  wavered  Mathison  leaped,  bore  his  man 
down,  knelt  on  his  ribs  and  dug  his  fingers 
into  the  bull-like  neck.  No  doubt  Mathi- 
son would  have  throttled  him.  An  eye  for 
an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  But  a  singular 
event  stayed  his  hands. 

During  all  this  surging  to  and  fro,  this 
battering  and  scuffling,  Malachi's  fear  and 
agitation  had  grown  to  the  point  where  he 
was  compelled  to  express  his  disapproval 
in  the  only  way  he  knew — by  sounds, 
hoarse,  raucous  sounds,  human  words. 

"Mat! . . .  Chota  Malachil . . .  You  lubber, 
where's  my  tobacco?  . . .  Mat! . . .  Lysgaard! 
...  To  hell  with  the  Ki!  ...  Mathison, 
Hallowell  and  Company,  and  be  damned 
to  you!  .  .  .  Mat!  .  .  .  Lysgaard!" 

Slowly  Mathison  drew  back.  The  berser- 
ker lust  to  kill  evaporated,  leaving  him  cold 
and  sick.  The  revelation  that  the  name  of 

257 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

the  murderer  was  Lysgaard  was  insignifi- 
cant beside  the  fact  that  Hallowell  had 
reached  out  from  Beyond  and  saved  his  friend 
from  carrying  blood-guilty  hands  to  Hilda 
Nordstrom,  who  waited  down-stairs! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MEANTIME  the  jar  of  the  battle  had 
not  passed  unnoticed.  The  guests  in 
the  rooms  adjoining  and  below  had  been 
telephoning  the  office.  The  clerk,  aware 
that  there  were  Secret  Service  operatives  at 
all  exits,  hastily  summoned  them.  And 
four  plunged  into  Mathison's  room  just  as 
he  stepped  away  from  the  bed. 

"It's  all  over,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
thickly.  "The  man  on  the  bed  is  wanted 
on  two  accounts — theft  of  naval  plans  and 
murder.  He  is  Karl  Lysgaard.  In  1916, 
to  cover  his  espionage  endeavors,  he  became 
a  naturalized  citizen.  Ostensibly  he  is 
Danish;  but  he  was  born  in  Holtenau,  near 
enough  to  the  Kiel  Canal  to  make  him  a 
first-class  Prussian.  Take  him  to  the  Tombs, 
and  keep  your  eye  on  him  while  taking  him 
there.  I  will  appear  against  him  in  the 
morning.  The  woman  known  as  The  Yellow 
Typhoon  .  .  ." 

259 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"Has  vanished,"  whispered  one  of  the 
operatives. 

"Escaped?" 

"Like  smoke!  Telephone  message  came 
while  you  were  up  here.  But  she  won't  go 
far.  Already  all  exits  are  being  watched.  No 
trains,  no  ships;  and  she  will  not  be  able  to 
hide  long  in  New  York.  Some  scrap  you 
must  have  had  here.  Your  uniform's  a 
wreck.  Better  wash  up." 

Mathison  staggered  into  the  bathroom, 
now  mindful  of  his  injuries.  He  was  sure 
that  one  or  more  of  his  ribs  were  broken. 
Every  beat  of  his  heart  was  accompanied 
by  a  stab  either  in  his  head  or  in  his  torso. 
The  floor  wavered  like  sand  in  the  heat; 
and  he*  was  none  too  certain  about  the 
walls. 

Escaped!  The  Yellow  Typhoon  had 
slipped  through  that  web !  He  did  not  know 
whether  he  was  glad  or  sorry.  Not  one  man 
in  a  thousand  would  have  broken  through 
that  alert  cordon;  and  yet  this  woman  had 
done  it.  The  pity  of  it!  Brave  and  fear- 
less and  beautiful . . .  and  absolutely  lawless. 
He  could  not  stir  up  a  bit  of  hatred.  She 
had  broken  Bob  HallowelTs  heart,  and  yet 
John  Mathison  could  only  admire  her 

260 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

strength  and  cunning.  The  admiration  a 
brave  man  always  pays  a  fearless  antagonist. 
Somehow  he  knew  that  she  would  be  free 
for  a  long  while.  But  how  would  she  use 
this  furtive  freedom?  Seek  to  injure  Hilda, 
himself?  Like  as  not.  But  he  had  in  mind 
a  solution  for  this  problem.  It  would  de- 
pend, though,  upon  the  woman  waiting 
down-stairs. 

Entering  the  room  again,  he  confronted 
the  man  he  had  outthought  and  outfought. 
He  was  dizzy,  but  he  could  navigate  alone. 
The  blond  man  had  to  be  propped  between 
two  operatives.  He  was  in  a  bad  way. 
Mathison  produced  the  manila  envelope. 

"Observe  those  photographs?  That  is 
why  you  did  not  succeed.  We  idiotic 
Yankees!  They  will  hang  you  by  the  neck, 
Lysgaard.  What!  You  believed  I  would 
risk  carrying  HallowelTs  specifications  in 
an  ordinary  manila  envelope,  depositing  it 
when  I  stopped  at  a  hotel,  letting  every- 
body know  that  I  was  carrying  an  important 
document?  Your  method,  perhaps,  but  not 
mine.  And  the  irony  of  it  is  the  prints 
were  always  within  easy  reach  of  your  hand. 
This  manila  envelope  was  merely  a  noose, 
and  you  drew  it  yourself.  It  is  a  forerun- 

261 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

ner  of  what  your  nation  will  receive  at  the 
hands  of  mine." 

Mathison  ripped  open  the  envelope  and 
displayed  the  contents — a  dozen  sheets  of 
heavy  blank  paper. 

"You  will  never  see  your  woman  again, 
Lysgaard.  I  had  no  evidence.  I  com- 
pelled you  to  furnish  it.  A  man-hunt  and 
you  never  suspected.  Take  him  away, 
gentlemen;  and  thanks  for  your  assistance." 

Down-stairs  Hilda  waited,  with  growing 
wonder  and  anxiety.  When  she  finally  saw 
Lysgaard  lurch  out  of  the  elevator,  sup- 
ported, her  anxiety  became  terror.  What 
had  happened?  Where  was  Mathison?  She 
wanted  to  rush  forward  and  ask  questions, 
but  she  dared  not.  The  value  of  her  ser- 
vices would  always  depend  upon  the  fact 
that  her  activities  were  practically  un- 
known. So  she  sat  perfectly  quiet  and 
watched  the  remarkable  procession  file  past 
and  vanish  round  the  corner  of  the  corridor. 

The  sight  of  the  blond  beast  naturally 
brought  back  the  thought  of  Berta.  She, 
too,  was  now  a  prisoner.  Prison.  A  cell 
with  bars  and  filtered  sunshine,  intermi- 
nable monotony  and  maddening  thoughts. 

262 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

It  was  horrible.  And  she,  Hilda,  could 
do  nothing.  Berta  merited  whatever  pun- 
ishment an  outraged  nation  might  see  fit 
to  visit  upon  her.  Flesh  and  blood — or  was 
there  something  in  the  psychology  of  double- 
birth?  Was  there  really  an  invisible  con- 
necting link?  Yet,  if  so,  why  had  she  not 
felt  that  Berta  was  alive?  Why  had  she 
shed  tears  over  the  poor,  unrecognizable 
thing  in  Berta's  clothes  she  and  the  mother 
had  buried  eight  years  ago?  If  only  some- 
thing occult  had  warned  her!  The  mother 
might  have  borne  up  under  such  a  blow — 
the  return  of  the  wayward.  But  to  her 
Berta  was  dead;  and  a  return  under  the 
present  tragic  circumstances  would  without 
doubt  result  in  a  death  shock.  Ah,  if 
Berta  had  come  back  a  penitent,  the  news 
might  have  been  broken  gradually.  But 
a  lawless  Berta,  predatory,  vengeful  .  .  .! 

And  to-morrow  night  Norma  Farrington 
would  romp  across  the  stage,  now  tender, 
now  whimsical;  now  making  her  audience 
laugh,  now  bringing  them  to  the  verge  of 
tears.  And  all  the  while  Hilda  Nordstrom's 
heart  would  be  breaking.  She  would  com- 
plete the  run  because  her  word  had  never 
been  broken.  She  could  not  possibly  find 

263 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

it  in  her  thoughts  to  be  disloyal  to  loyal 
Sam  Rubin. 

Love!  It  was  not  enough  that  Berta 
should  return  to  life.  She,  Hilda,  must 
give  her  heart  unasked  to  a  man  who  ap- 
peared to  be  quite  satisfied  with  friendship. 
She  hadn't  even  fought  against  it.  Non- 
resistant,  she  had  permitted  this  crowning 
folly  to  creep  into  her  heart.  She  had  for- 
gotten that  to  him  Mrs.  Chester  was  an  old 
woman,  and  that  he  had  sought  her  society 
because  he  was  just  humanly  lonesome. 
She  hadn't  had  her  chance.  With  the 
physical  attributes  of  a  Venus  and  the 
mental  attainments  of  an  Aspasia,  a  woman 
might  not  win  the  heart  of  a  man  in  three 
short  hours.  Love  at  first  sight!  She 
trembled.  He  had  used  that  subject  mere- 
ly to  pass  the  time  and  to  keep  the  conver- 
sation away  from  dangerous  channels.  She 
was  very  unhappy. 

She  heard  the  elevator  door  rattle  in  the 
groove.  Mathison  stepped  forth.  Malachi's 
cage  bobbed  against  a  leg.  He  paused  a 
moment  (truthfully,  to  get  his  sea-legs,  for 
he  was  still  groggy)  and  brushed  his  fore- 
head with  his  free  hand.  The  movement 
left  a  bloody  smear. 

264 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

She  flew  to  him  and  cried,  in  passionate 
anger,  "The  beast  has  hurt  you!" 

1 '  Banged  me  up  a  bit.  But  my  teeth  are  all 
sound,  and  I  still  can  bite.  He  got  loose 
somehow,  and  .  .  .  well,  I  went  berserker. 
I'm  a  sight!  Malachi  did  a  fine  thing  to- 
night. I  was  killing  that  man,  when  Mala- 
chi spoke  up.  I'll  see  you  home." 

"Indeed  you  shall  .  .  .  straight  up  to  my 
apartment,  where  I  can  take  care  of  those 
cuts  and  bruises." 

"At  this  hour?"  tingling. 

"What  matters  the  hour?  Wouldn't  you 
prefer  me  to  the  hotel  physician?"  raising 
the  veil  and  letting  him  look  into  her  eyes, 
which  were  full  of  sapphire  lights. 

"All  right.  You  may  do  with  me  as  you 
please." 

Day  after  to-morrow  was  now  very  far 
away.  At  no  time  in  his  life  had  he  craved 
so  poignantly  for  the  touch  of  a  woman's 
hand.  To  be  ministered  to,  coddled,  made 
of;  a  memory  to  take  away  with  him  to 
the  high  seas,  from  which  he  might  never 
return. 

She  ran  back  for  his  greatcoat,  held  it  for 
him  and  noted  the  grimace  as  he  stretched 
his  arms  backward  for  the  sleeves. 

18  265 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"What  is  it?" 

"Ribs,  head,  and  shoulder;  all  in  the 
sick-bay.  Lord,  but  I'm  a  wreck!" 

She  picked  up  the  cage  and  grasped  his 
sleeve.  Her  heart  sang.  For  an  hour  or 
two;  to  use  all  her  arts  in  making  the  epi- 
sode unforgetable  to  this  man.  To  mother 
and  coddle  him;  to  run  her  eager  fingers 
through  his  fine  hair.  An  hour  or  two,  all, 
all  her  own! 

In  the  taxi  he  told  her  briefly  what  had 
happened  and  brought  the  Odyssey  to  an 
end  by  disclosing  the  fact  that  Berta  had 
escaped  the  net. 

"But  don't  worry.  I've  an  idea  she'll 
be  too  busy  to  trouble  you.  She's  keen. 
By  now  she  must  understand  that  the  game 
is  up.  She  will  be  concerned  with  little 
else  besides  her  efforts  to  get  clear  of  New 
York.  Ten  to  one,  she'll  strike  for  the 
Orient.  I'm  sorry.  Not  that  she  escaped, 
but  that  she  was  able  to  hurt  you.  We're 
all  riddles,  aren't  we?" 

"Berta  free?  ...  I'm  glad.  I  can't  help 
it.  It  may  be  the  turning-point.  In  all 
these  years  she  has  never  met  with  any 
serious  defeat.  Who  knows?  For  if  she 
is  her  father's  daughter,  she  is  also  her 

260 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

mother's.  God  bring  her  vision  to  see 
things  clearly!  That  blond  beast's  evil 
influence  removed,  who  knows?" 

In  the  cozy  living-room  of  the  apartment 
a  fire  burned  low.  Hilda  threw  on  a  log, 
then  helped  him  off  with  his  coat.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  he  really  had  to  be  helped. 
Obsessed  with  the  idea  of  getting  his  hands 
on  the  man  Lysgaard's  throat,  he  had  laid 
himself  open  to  many  terrible  blows.  He  was 
going  to  be  very  sore  and  lame  to-morrow. 

She  swung  the  willow  lounge  parallel  to 
the  fire  and  forced  him  to  lie  down. 

"Back  in  a  moment!"  she  said,  flying 
away. 

He  lay  back  and  closed  his  sound  eye; 
the  other  was  already  closed.  And  as  he 
lay  there,  awaiting  her  return,  the  Idea 
came.  He  could  never  win  this  glorious 
creature  by  simply  telling  her  he  loved  her. 
He  would  have  to  take  her  by  storm,  carry 
her  off  her  feet — and  he  was  only  a  molly- 
coddle among  the  women.  Still,  he  knew 
what  he  knew.  Presently  he  smiled;  at 
least  it  was  meant  for  a  smile.  How  the 
deuce  would  he  be  able  to  kiss  her  when  the 
time  came,  with  his  lips  puffed  and  bleeding? 
The  glory  of  her! 

267 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Obliquely  he  could  see  Malachi.  "The 
little  son-of-a-gun !  And  he  hasn't  the  least 
idea  that  he  saved  his  master  from  being 
as  beastly  as  the  Hun.  .  .  .  Close  shave!  .  .  . 
Bob's  voice,  calling  out  the  name  of  the 
man  who  had  killed  him,  like  that!  ...  I'll 
be  a  trig-looking  individual  when  I  strike 
Washington  to-morrow!"  ruefully. 

Hilda  returned  with  basin,  alcohol,  lint, 
bandages,  and  salves.  And  he  let  her  have 
her  way  with  him.  After  she  had  bandaged 
the  gash  on  his  forehead  and  his  raw  knuc- 
kles, she  wet  her  finger-tips  with  alcohol  and 
ran  them  back  and  forth  through  his  hair. 
Not  since  his  mother's  death  had  this 
happened;  and  never  had  he  experienced 
such  a  thrill.  He  longed  to  seize  the  hand 
and  kiss  it,  but  he  conquered  the  desire. 

By  and  by  he  spoke.  "The  blue-prints, 
with  No.  9,  are  in  the  hollow  under  Malachi 's 
basin.  They  are  in  a  rubber  sack  such  as 
you  roll  up  slickers  in.  I'll  take  them  out 
when  I  go.  Be  sure  you  talk  a  little  to  him 
every  day.  He  likes  it.  He's  a  gossip.  Rice 
and  fruits  and  nuts ;  he's  frugal.  It  will  buck 
me  up  to  know  that  he  is  in  good  hands." 

"The  funny  little  green  bird!  I'll  take 
care  of  him  until  you  come  back." 

208 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

"That's  odd.  Somehow  I  know  I'm 
coming  back.  .  .  .  Where's  this  man  Rubin 
live?" 

"  Rubin?  He  has  an  apartment  near 
by."  Rubin?  What  had  Rubin  to  do 
with  this  hour,  resentfully! 

"What's  a  successful  week  amount  to?" 

"We'll  probably  draw  from  ten  to  twelve 
thousand."  What  in  the  world  was  the 
meaning  of  such  irrelevant  questions? 

"About  thirty  thousand  in  two  weeks," 
nrminatingly.  "I  am,  even  in  these  days, 
a  comparatively  rich  man.  Lots  of  ready 
money,  bonds,  and  stock.  It's  been  piling 
up  for  years.  And  now  I'm  glad  it  has." 

She  understood.  He  had  been  struck  a 
dangerous  blow  on  the  head,  and  his  mind 
was  wandering.  She  patted  his  hand  re- 
assuringly. 

He  went  on.  "The  old  home — which  I 
haven't  seen  in  nearly  ten  years — is  up-state, 
on  the  edge  of  the  North  Woods.  The  man 
who  farms  it  keeps  up  the  house.  A  day's 
work  would  make  it  habitable.  Just  now 
it  must  be  wonderful.  Skating  and  snow- 
shoeing.  Lord!  how  I've  hungered  for  the 
snow!  ...  I  wonder  if  that  extension  'phone 
will  reach  over  here?" 

269 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Yes."  Poor  boy!  Did  he  expect  to  get 
his  farmer  on  long-distance  at  this  hour? 

"Splendid!  Now  suppose  you  bring  it 
over?" 

She  did  so.  She  knelt  beside  the  lounge 
and  held  out  the  telephone. 

"No.  You're  going  to  start  it.  Call 
up  Rubin.  He'll  be  asleep;  but  what  I've 
got  to  say  will  wake  him  up." 

"What  in  the  world  .  .  ." 

"Call  him  up!  I'm  an  invalid  and  must 
be  humored." 

For  a  moment  her  fingers  seemed  all 
thumbs.  She  succeeded  in  calling  the  num- 
ber. There  came  a  long  wait.  She  stole  a 
glance  at  Mathison.  He  might  have  been 
asleep,  for  all  the  interest  he  evinced  in  this 
extraordinary  proceeding.  What  could  he 
want  of  Rubin? 

"Hello!  It  is  you,  Sam?  This  is  Hilda. 
.  .  .  No,  no!  nobody's  dead.  .  .  .  There's  a 
gentleman  here.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  perfectly 
proper.  .  .  .  He  wants  to  speak  to  you.  ...  I 
don't  know.  ...  He  is  not  a  dub.  .  .  .  Yes; 
the  flowers  and  the  note  .  .  .  you  knew  it! 
What  do  you  mean?  .  .  .  All  right." 

She  turned  to  Mathison.     "I  have  him." 

Mathison  managed  to  lift  himself  to  a 

270 


•    THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

more  comfortable  angle.  "  This  Mr.  Rubin? 
Ah! ...  I'll  break  it  gently.  Hilda  and  I  are 
going  to  be  married  in  the  morning.  .  .  .  Keep 
your  hair  on!  ...  Then  we  are  going  to 
Washington.  On  our  return  we  are  going 
to  spend  the  honeymoon  at  my  home  in 
the  North  Woods.  .  .  .  Contract?  What  the 
deuce  is  that  to  me?  .  .  .  No;  you  can't  talk 
to  her  until  I'm  through.  .  .  .  Contract!  .  .  . 
Listen  to  me.  You  will  announce  that  she 
is  ill.  She  will  be  if  she  goes  on  to-morrow 
night,  after  all  she's  been  through.  .  .  .  Hang 
it!  She  and  I  have  a  right  to  two  weeks  of 
happiness.  To  you  it's  business;  to  me  it's 
love.  I  will  give  you  fifty  thousand  dollars 
in  cold,  hard  cash  for  these  two  weeks, 
which  is  about  twenty  thousand  more  than 
you  would  ordinarily  make.  I'll  give  my 
permission  to  make  a  feature  story  out  of  it. 
And  if  I  know  anything  about  human 
nature,  on  her  return  you'll  pack  the  house 
all  summer.  If  you  refuse  my  offer,  not 
a  bally  copper  cent !  I'll  break  her  contract 
for  her  and  you  may  sue  from  Maine  to 
Oregon.  .  .  .  What's  that?  .  .  .  WeU,  by 
George,  that's  handsome!  I  thought  you 
were  a  good  sport.  Buy  out  the  house  for 
exactly  what  it  would  be  worth.  Come 

271 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

around  in  the  morning  and  be  best  man! 
Oh,  about  nine-thirty.  Good  night!" 

Mathison  turned  to  the  stupefied  Hilda. 
There  was  a  short  tableau;  then  she  laid 
her  head  on  the  arm  of  the  lounge  and  cried 
softly. 

"Girl,  I  can  do  only  one  thing  well  at  a 
time.  I  couldn't  tell  you  verbally  I  loved 
you  until  I'd  cleared  the  deck.  .  .  .  Sounds ! 
Remember?  When  you  came  in  through 
that  window  it  was  your  voice,  but  I 
couldn't  place  it  then.  I  opened  that  red 
book  and  one  of  Malachi's  feathers  dropped 
out.  That  recalled  the  old  lady  who  called 
me  Boy.  I  wanted  to  write  something, 
and  couldn't  find  my  pen.  It  was  in  my  cits. 
And  then  I  found  that  photograph  of  you. 
That's  how  I  learned  there  were  two  of  you. 
When  you  talked  on  the  stage  to-night  I 
shut  my  eyes.  Then  I  knew.  That's  how 
I  came  to  laugh  out  loud.  Sheer  joy! 
Fourteen  years!  You've  got  to  love  me. 
You've  got  to  marry  me.  God  is  just.  He 
won't  deny  me  now.  Didn't  you  tell 
me  I'd  find  Her?  .  .  .  Sounds!  That's  what 
I  meant — your  voice.  I  didn't  know  why  I 
came  to  you  every  morning  on  board  the 
Nippon  Mara,  but  my  heart  did.  My  eyes 

£72 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

saw  only  a  queer,  whimsical  old  lady;  but 
my  heart  saw  youth  and  beauty  and  love. 
Will  you  marry  me?" 

A  nod. 

"You  are  going  to  try  to  love  me?" 

"No!" 

"What?" 

"You  .  .  .  you  can't  go  to  do  something 
when  you  already  do!" 

"Wabbly  rhetoric,  but  I  understand!  .  .  . 
Hilda,  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul!  Love 
you,  love  you!  I've  been  saying  in  my 
heart  all  night :  '  Love  me !  Love  me !'  "  • 

"So  have  I!  ...  But  I'll  never  forgive 
you!" 

"For  what?" 

"You  told  Rubin  before  you  told  me!" 

"Lord!  Lord!  I've  been  telling  you  all 
night  with  my  eyes  that  I  loved  you."  He 
brushed  her  shining  hair  with  burning  lips. 
He  couldn't  even  put  his  arms  around  her! 
"Now  there's  just  one  thing  I've  got  to 
hear  to  make  this  the  most  perfect  hour  in 
my  life."  He  raised  her  head.  There  was 
a  violent  stab  in  his  side,  but  he  considered 
it  negligible  in  this  supreme  moment.  "Say 
it!" 

"Boy!"  she  whispered. 

273 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

The  way  she  had  always  dreamed  of  be- 
ing loved.  Berserker  love!  To  be  swept 
off  her  feet  and  carried  away  to  an  enchant- 
ed palace!  That  little  magic  green  feather! 
Malachi!  She  pressed  her  cheek  against 
this  wonderful  lover's  and  her  hand  instinc- 
tively found  his. 

"Mat,  you  lubber!"  grumbled  Malachi, 
from  the  rosy  hearth. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Mathison  estate  was  in  the  foot- 
1  hills  of  the  Adirondacks.  There  were 
farmlands,  pulp-mills,  forests,  and  streams. 
At  the  northern  extremity  of  the  estate 
there  was  a  small  lake.  The  manor  proper 
stood  on  the  south  shore  of  this  lake,  four 
miles  from  the  village  and  the  railway 
station.  It  was  a  lonely  habitation  in  the 
winter. 

The  house  was  of  limestone,  beautifully 
weathered,  and  was  dated  1812.  Here 
Mathison  had  been  bom;  here  he  had  spent 
his  early  youth.  With  the  father  almost 
constantly  at  sea,  the  mother  had  preferred 
the  quiet  of  the  woods  to  the  noise  and  bluster 
of  New  York. 

Hilda  went  into  ecstasies  over  chairs  and 
sofas  that  had  become  antique  in  these  very 
rooms.  She  saw  the  mother's  hand  every- 
where, the  quiet  artistry  of  a  hand  guided 
by  a  noble  mind.  Hilda  romped  about  the 

275 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

rooms  with  the  eager  curiosity  of  a  child; 
and  it  might  be  truthfully  added  that 
Mathison  romped  with  her.  They  were  so 
completely  in  love  that  they  saw  beauty  in 
everything,  in  the  hard,  brilliant  sunsets, 
in  the  Northern  Lights,  in  the  yellow  dawns. 
Every  day  they  skated  or  snow-shoed;  and 
there  was  always  a  roaring  chestnut  fire  to 
greet  them. 

And  yet  there  were  shadows,  deep  and 
somber  shadows,  that  fell  across  the  sun- 
shine of  their  happiness.  They  never  said 
anything  about  these  shadows  to  each 
other;  but  always  during  the  hour  that 
comes  before  candles  the  shadows  pressed 
in  and  down.  Hilda  could  not  shut  out  the 
thought  of  Berta.  Where  was  she,  what 
was  she  doing?  Berta  might  deny  the 
blood,  but  Hilda  could  not.  Berta  was 
her  twin.  During  this  twilight  hour  she 
saw  this  beautiful  counterpart  of  herself 
moving  furtively,  flying  by  night,  hiding  by 
day,  alone,  alone;  perhaps  penniless  and 
hungry.  When  the  thought  of  the  way- 
ward one  became  too  strong  Hilda  sought 
the  piano,  which  she  played  exquisitely. 

Mathison's  shadow  lay  upon  him  per- 
petually, but  more  keenly  when  he  and 

27« 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

Hilda  sat  before  the  fire,  waiting  for  the 
lights.  The  man  Lysgaard  had  escaped. 
Free!  Beaten  and  to  all  appearances  broken, 
he  had  escaped  on  the  way  to  the  Tombs. 
A  forced  pause  before  a  fire  in  a  chemical 
establishment  had  opened  the  way  for  him. 
The  crowd,  the  noise  and  confusion,  and 
the  insatiable  curiosity  and  over-confidence 
of  his  captors  had  given  him  his  chance. 
The  strength  of  the  rogue,  after  that  beat- 
ing! They  had  left  one  man  in  the  patrol 
with  him,  and  Lysgaard  had  suddenly 
dashed  his  manacled  hands  into  the  man's 
face  and  then  choked  him  into  insensibility. 
He  had  coolly  taken  the  operative's  hat 
and  overcoat.  The  latter  he  had  wrapped 
across  his  shoulders,  holding  it  together 
from  the  inside.  He  had  then  stepped  into 
the  seething  crowd  and  vanished  completely. 
Search  for  him  had  been  in  vain.  He  had 
probably  known  where  to  find  a  haven. 
The  real  menace  in  his  being  at  large  lay  in 
the  fact  that  undoubtedly  he  did  not  know 
that  Berta  was  a  twin.  He  would  have 
means  of  finding  what  had  become  of  John 
Mathison.  He  would  learn  that  a  woman 
had  accompanied  his  enemy.  A  trifling 
description  of  that  woman  would  be  enough. 

£77 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

Being  a  Prussian,  there  would  be  only  one 
idea  in  Lysgaard's  head — Berta  had  run 
away  with  the  man  who  had  beaten  him. 
Vengeance,  before  they  found  him  and 
dropped  the  noose  over  his  head. 

There  was  a  third  shadow  and  they 
shared  this  mutually  if  silently — Mathison's 
inevitable  departure  for  English  waters. 

"John,"  she  said,  one  afternoon,  "I'm  so 
happy  that  it  hurts." 

He  laughed  and  swung  her  into  his  arms, 
which  never  ceased  to  be  hungry  for  her; 
and  there  was  always  a  sharp  little  stab 
when  he  let  her  go.  The  hour  was  fast 
approaching  when  he  would  have  to  let  her 
go,  perhaps  forever.  .  .  . 

"  Glorious  up  here,  isn't  it?" 

"  But  why  do  you  bar  the  windows  and 
doors  so  carefully  at  night?  There  can't 
be  any  burglars  in  this  wilderness,  at  least 
not  in  the  winter." 

'You  never  can  tell.  Sometimes  there 
are  mighty  high  winds  around  these  dig- 
gings. You  heard  how  the  windows  rattled 
last  night."  Mathison  reached  for  his  cup 
of  tea.  So  she  had  noticed? 

"How  your  mother  must  have  loved  this 
place!" 

278 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Why,  it  fairly  breathes  of  love;  the 
beauty  of  all  the  furnishings  and  the  way 
they  are  arranged.  What  fun  it  must  have 
been — and  you  toddling  around  after  her! 
Come;  I  want  to  show  you  something." 
She  led  over  to  a  corner,  and  there  in  a  heap 
were  rows  of  battered  leaden  soldiers, 
twisted  leaden  swords,  and  forts  of  wood. 
"War,  battle,"  went  on  Hilda,  soberly; 
"even  as  little  children.  What  has  hap- 
pened to  the  souls  of  men,  that  from  gener- 
ation to  generation  the  male  child's  toys 
must  be  these?  Must  women  always  suffer 
to  see  these  things  about?  I  found  them 
in  the  garret." 

'Instinct,  little  old  lady.  From  the  day 
one  man  has  had  to  protect  himself  and  his 
woman,  bloodily.  We  are  still  doing  it,  on 
a  more  terrible  scale  than  ever.  Odd, 
I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  these  in  twenty 
years." 

"How  often  your  mother  must  have 
watched  you  there  on  the  floor  before  the 
fire,  playing  at  war,  and  your  father  facing 
death  at  sea.  But  oh,  lover,  lover!"  She 
caught  him  fiercely  to  her.  "In  so  short 
a  time!  I  haven't  said  anything,  for  I  did 

279 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

not  want  to  mar  your  happiness.  But  it  is 
hurting  so !  Dear  God.  bring  him  back  to 
me!" 

"Honey,  I'll  come  back.  There  isn't  a 
shell  or  a  U-boat  in  the  world  with  my  name 
on  it.  I  know  it.  I  hate  to  have  you  re- 
turn to  the  stage,  and  yet  it  will  be  the  best 
thing.  You'll  be  busy.  Idleness  never 
bucks  up  a  person's  courage." 

"Hark!"  She  stepped  back  from  him 
swiftly.  "I  hear  sleigh-bells."  She  stif- 
fened. Sleigh-bells  and  yellow  envelopes, 
for  she  knew  that  Mathison  had  left  orders 
at  the  station  to  send  out  telegrams  imme- 
diately they  were  received.  There  was  no 
telephone. 

"The  village  grocer,  maybe,"  suggested 
Mathison,  himself  receiving  a  shock  at  the 
sound  of  the  bells. 

"No;  he  always  drives  out  before  noon." 

Hilda  ran  to  the  window  to  peer  out,  but 
it  was  too  dark  for  her  to  see  anything  dis- 
tinctly. 

As  for  Mathison,  he  shifted  his  automatic 
to  the  right  side -pocket  of  his  jacket. 
Merely  precautionary;  for  the  man  he  was 
expecting  would  not  approach  the  front 
door  with  such  boldness.  Yet  the  man  was 

280 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

infernally  clever  in  some  ways.  He  was 
likely  to  do  the  unexpected.  Of  course, 
there  was  always  a  chance  that  Lysgaard 
might  try  to  put  to  sea  and  put  over  his 
hour  of  vengeance  until  later.  There  was 
an  odd  trait  in  Mathison's  character.  He 
was  always  suspicious  when  events  ran 
along  too  smoothly.  His  very  happiness 
was  almost  a  warning.  He  had  often 
thought  of  having  a  Secret  Service  man 
come  up  and  watch  the  four  trains  that 
passed  daily;  but,  being  a  man  of  red  blood, 
he  hated  the  idea.  If  Lysgaard  succeeded 
in  getting  through  the  cordon,  he  would  try 
to  find  John  Mathison.  Backed  as  he  was 
by  a  powerful  secret  organization,  and  no 
doubt  having  John  Mathison's  dossier  in  his 
pocket  or  in  his  memory,  he  would  not  have 
much  difficulty  in  locating  the  dove-cote. 

"Why,  it's  a  woman!"  cried  Hilda. 

"A  woman?  All  right.  You  stay  here 
and  I'll  go  to  the  door." 

He  reached  the  door  just  as  the  bell  rang. 
The  visitor  entered  without  a  word  and 
raised  a  thick  veil. 

"Well,  brother-in-law!"  mockingly. 

"Berta?"  came  a  startled  voice  from  the 
doorway  leading  to  the  living-room. 

19  281 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"Yes,  dear  sister,  Berta — the  ghost  who 
wants  to  return  to  her  tomb  and  can't  find 
the  way.  I  smell  tea.  I'd  like  a  cup." 

Berta  passed  into  the  living-room  and 
stopped  before  the  burning  logs,  stretching 
out  her  hands.  The  sable  coat,  once  so 
magnificent,  was  matted  and  torn,  the  hat 
bedraggled,  the  shoes  water-soaked  and 
cracked;  but  the  fire  in  Berta's  eyes  and  the 
beauty  of  her  face  were  still  imdimmed. 
What  a  woman!  thought  Mathison,  thrilled 
in  spite  of  his  vague  terror. 

Hilda,  however,  saw  only  the  hunted 
woman,  the  desperation,  the  cold,  the  hun- 
ger. A  sign,  and  she  would  have  opened 
her  arms.  But  Berta  was  still  The  Yellow 
Typhoon,  harassed  but  unconquered.  She 
tossed  her  hat  and  coat  upon  a  chair  and 
helped  herself  to  a  cup  of  tea.  There  was 
evil  mischief  in  her  smile.  After  she  had 
drunk  the  tea.  she  selected  a  cigarette  and 
lighted  it. 

"Ah,  that  is  good!  1  haven't  had  a 
decent  cigarette  in  four  days.  The  driver 
thought  I  was  you,  Hilda.  What  a  God- 
forsaken hole!  But  it  was  not  so  hard  to 
find.  In  your  dossier — I  read  it  while  we 
were  entering  New  York — it  was  recorded 

282 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

that  you  were  born  here,  that  it  was  the  only 
home  you  had.  Where  would  two  senti- 
mental fools  like  you  two  come  for  their 
honeymoon?  The  North  is  in  the  blood 
of  both  of  you.  A  ghost,  Hilda;  and  with 
a  wave  of  your  hand — my  e vanishment.  I 
want  a  passport  to  Denmark.  It  will  not 
be  wise  to  refuse  me.  I  haven't  tried  to 
see  the  mother.  We  are  dead  to  each 
other;  let  it  be  so.  But  there  are  other 
ways  by  which  I  can  twist  your  heart,  my 
beautiful  Norma." 

"Don't  mind  about  me,  John.  You  can- 
not hurt  me,  Berta." 

"I  can  try.  Arrest  me  and  see  what  will 
come  of  it.  You  two  have  sent  to  his  death 
the  only  man  I  ever  cared  for." 

"He  was  a  murderer!"  cried  Hilda. 

' '  No ;  it  was  war.  What  he  did  was  in  the 
interest  of  Germany,  and  that  absolves  him." 

"You  are  not  a  Prussian ;  you  are  a  Dane." 

"My  sympathies  are  with  Prussia;  and 
that  is  enough  for  me.  I  am  the  daughter 
of  a  noble.  I  did  not  come  here  to  discuss 
the  war.  I  came  to  demand  help." 

Mathison  sighed  with  relief.  The  woman 
did  not  know  that  her  man  was  at  large. 
He  played  a  card  in  the  dark. 

283 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

"I  purpose  to  give  you  up  to  the  authori- 
ties at  once/'he  said,  coldly. 

Berta  laughed.  "Try  it.  Do  you  think 
me  such  a  fool  as  to  come  unarmed?" 

"And  how  might  you  be  armed?" 

"Ask  my  sister." 

"She  is  right,  John.  This  would  kill  my 
mother.  But  if  we  secure  a  passport,  what 
is  your  bond?" 

"The  word  of  Berta  Nordstrom.  I  never 
broke  that  when  once  I  gave  it.  Back  there 
in  New  York  you  spoke  of  the  tomb.  All  I 
want  is  to  return  to  it.  Let  me  get  to  Den- 
mark, and  I  shall  never  bother  either  of  you 
again." 

Mathison  began  pacing,  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  his  chin  down.  Berta  eyed  him 
with  cynical  amusement,  letting  the  ciga- 
rette smoke  drift  up  her  nostrils.  By  and 
by  she  tossed  the  cigarette  into  the  fire. 

"If  I  make  threats,  it  is  because  I  have 
to.  I  am  tired.  Wait!"  She  made  a 
passionate  gesture.  "This  is  no  sign  of 
weakness.  I  shall  hate  you  both  as  long 
as  I  live.  You  have  forced  me  to  walk 
alone.  I  don't  want  to  go  on  fighting  any 
more.  I  want  peace  and  quiet.  I  shall 
find  it  where  I  was  born.  Get  me  a  pass- 

284 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

port  and  I  shall  vanish.  I  have  plenty  of 
money.  Much  of  it  is  in  the  banks  in 
Copenhagen.  I  had  always  planned  to  re- 
turn there  some  day.  I  can  establish 
proofs  of  my  identity  and  my  right  to  the 
inheritance  our  mother  denied  us.  Until 
the  passport  arrives  I  must  abide  here, 
however  distasteful  it  may  be  to  you. 
Do  you  believe  it  will  be  pleasant  for  me? 
Your  food  will  be  wormwood,  your  water 
lees,  and  your  bed  will  burn  me.  Odd  that 
I  should  wish  to  go  on,  that  I  should  care 
to  live.  I  shaVt  disturb  your  cooing. 
Your  maid,  who  doubtless  knows  by  this 
time  that  there  are  two  of  us,  can  bring  me 
food.  I  was  a  fool  not  to  have  told  him 
that  there  were  two  of  us;  and  he  may  go 
to  his  death  believing  that  I  betrayed  him. 
But  I  have  written  a  letter  to  Manila  ex- 
plaining. Hate  you?  With  every  drop  of 
blood  in  me!  But  get  me  the  passport, 
and  I  promise  to  leave  you  both  in  peace." 
"Very  well,"  said  Mathison,  facing  her; 
"you  shall  have  it.  But  for  Hilda,  I  should 
not  stir  a  hand.  You  are  an  alien  enemy. 
You  are  dangerous  and  merciless.  You 
have  no  mercy  for  your  sister,  who  tried  to 
save  you;  and  the  word  'mother'  means 

885 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

nothing  to  you.  You  ruined — or  tried  to — 
the  dearest  friend  I  had.  And  the  man  of 
your  choice  murdered  him  in  cold  blood. 
There  is  a  black  score  against  you.  But 
because  I  love  your  sister  beyond  ordinary 
man's  love,  I  am  going  to  let  you  go." 

"Because  you  are  afraid  of  me,"  tran- 
quilly. 

"  Frankly  because  I  am  afraid  of  you." 

"I  hate  you.  If  I  had  the  time  and  op- 
portunity I  would  do  you  all  the  evil  I 
could.  You  defeated  me.  But  for  all  that, 
you  are  a  man;  and  I  know  men.  Hilda, 
will  you  know  how  to  keep  him?" 

"Yes!" 

"After  all,  you  are  not  my  sister  for  noth- 
ing. Show  me  to  my  room.  Have  your 
maid  bring  me  up  something  to  eat.  I  am 
starved.  It  was  such  a  place  to  find. 
Cooing  doves,  in  a  bleak  cage  like  this!" 

The  chamber  assigned  to  her  was  directly 
over  the  living-room.  After  dinner  that 
night  they  heard  her  walking,  walking,  walk- 
ing. The  Snow-leopard,  thought  Mathison; 
and  because  she  was  the  twin  of  the  noble 
woman  whose  hand  was  locked  in  his  he 
would  have  to  cheat  his  government,  com- 
mit his  first  dishonorable  deed!  For  he 

286 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

would  have  to  lie  and  cheat  to  secure  a  pass- 
port for  Berta  Nordstrom. 

"John!" 

"No.  I  shouldn't  go  to  her,  honey. 
Honestly,  I  can't  help  it,  but  I  do  not  trust 
her.  I'm  afraid  of  her.  The  blood  no 
longer  links  you.  Forget  that  part  of  it. 
She's  forgotten  it." 

"Will  there  be  trouble  in  getting  her  a 
passport?" 

"The  trouble  is  nothing.  I've  got  to  lie 
and  cheat." 

"We  were  so  happy!  My  sister,  my  own 
flesh  and  blood!  I  just  can't  understand 
it!" 

"No  more  can  I.  But  the  fact  remains 
that  she  is  still  The  Yellow  Typhoon.  And 
God  send  she  leaves  no  wreckage  here  when 
she  passes.  But  what  a  woman!" 

"That  is  it.  If  we  could  only  save  her, 
make  her  see!" 

Mathison  stared  at  the  ceiling  and  shook 
his  head.  The  light  thud  of  shoes  contin- 
ued. He  walked  over  to  the  stand  at  the 
side  of  the  fireplace  and  eyed  Malachi,  who 
was  dozing. 

"What  a  jogging  I've  given  the  poor 
little  beggar!  Malachi?" 

287 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

The  little  green  bird  opened  one  eye 
belligerently,  and  the  feathers  at  the  back 
of  his  neck  ruffled. 

"  John,  why  should  she  tramp  like  that?" 

"Go  to  her,  honey,  if  you  wish." 

But  Hilda's  knock  on  the  door  was  not 
answered. 

Berta  remained  in  her  room  all  the  fol- 
lowing day.  The  maid  reported  to  her 
mistress  that  the  unwelcome  guest  spoke 
no  words,  not  even  a  "thank  you."  She 
no  longer  walked  the  floor,  however. 

About  eight  o'clock  that  night  she  came 
unexpectedly  into  the  living-room.  Mathi- 
son  was  putting  on  a  fresh  log.  Hilda  was 
in  the  music-room,  playing  Rachmaninoff's 
surging  " Prelude." 

"I  was  cold,"  said  Berta,  unemotionally. 

Mathison  drew  up  a  chair  for  her,  rather 
clumsily.  She  sent  him  a  wry  little  smile 
as  she  sat  down,  spreading  her  fingers. 
After  a  while  she  raised  her  head  attentively. 
She  was  listening  to  the  music.  She  held 
this  attitude  for  several  minutes,  then 
propped  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  rested 
her  chin  in  her  palms.  Hilda  played  on, 
Chopin,  Grieg,  Rubinstein.  Stonily  Berta 
stared  into  the  fire. 

288 


"She  plays  well  ...  in  the  dark,  too." 

"She  does  all  things  well,"  said  the  lover. 
"You  are  fond  of  something,  then?" 

"Music?  Yes.  I  am  fond  of  many  things; 
but  I  except  human  beings.  You  are  trying 
to  solve  the  riddle?  Don't  waste  your  time. 
I'm  a  riddle  to  myself.  But  for  Hilda  I 
should  have  beaten  you.  Do  you  know,  if 
Hallowell  had  been  weak  I  should  have 
gone  out  to  your  villa.  I  wonder  what 
would  have  happened?" 

"He  would  have  been  alive  this  day,"  an- 
swered Mathison,  grimly;  "for  we  both  of  us 
would  have  vacated  the  premises.  Typhoon. 
They  named  you  well.  And  yet!" 

"Ah,  and  yet?"    Berta  looked  up. 

"Why  not  become  a  friend  instead  of  an 
enemy?  You  say  you  want  peace  and 
quiet  after  all  this  stormy  life.  Why  not 
melt  a  little?  I  know  my  wife.  She  would 
take  you  in  her  arms  with  half  a  chance." 

"Thanks.  Oh,  I  am  not  ironic.  I  mean 
it.  But  it  is  impossible.  I  cannot  change 
my  nature.  There  is  too  much  behind  me. 
I  chose  the  road  I  came  by.  Regret?  Re- 
morse? No.  To  you  I  am  bad;  to  myself, 
I  am  only  free.  .  .  .  Tell  her  to  play  that 
Russian  thing  again.  .  .  .  No;  I  must  go  my 

£89 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

chosen  way.  I  am  like  your  parrakeet. 
Sometimes  I  can  be  forced  to  do  things, 
but  always  I  am  untamable.  Get  me  that 
passport  and  I  will  vanish.  I  have  never 
known  what  it  is  to  be  sorry.  The  faculty 
isn't  in  me.  I  am  an  outcast.  I  prefer  it. 
But  I  am  notahypocrite.  I  did  not  come  here 
to  whine;  I  came  to  demand.  But  I'll 
soften  that.  Get  me  out  of  this  country, 
which  I  despise,  and  I'll  thank  you.  I  was 
not  implicated  in  the  killing  of  your  friend. 
Besides,  it  was  war." 

Mathison  shook  his  head.  A  pagan;  that 
was  it.  He  stooped  to  stir  a  log  and  got  a 
glimpse  of  her  eyes.  They  were  dry  and 
hard.  A  passport,  or  was  she  up  to  some 
deadly  mischief?  However  quickly  he 
might  obtain  a  passport,  he  knew  it  would 
not  arrive  until  after  he  himself  had  put  to 
sea.  Berta  free  and  Hilda  alone?  He 
leaned  against  the  mantel,  wondering  what 
the  end  would  be. 

There  were  French  doors  on  the  south 
side  of  the  living-room.  To  the  north  were 
the  original  deep-set  windows  with  broad 
seats  and  heavy  shutters.  Mathison  locked 
up  only  when  about  to  retire  for  the  night. 
His  back  was  toward  the  south,  so  he  missed 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

the  forewarning  of  the  menace.  The  brass 
knob  of  one  of  the  doors  was  turning  with 
infinite  slowness,  a  small  fraction  of  an  inch 
at  a  time.  If  there  was  any  sound,  it  was 
smothered  by  the  magnificent  chords  of 
Rachmaninoff's  melancholy  inspiration. 

Suddenly  Berta  stood  up,  covered  a  yawn, 
and  started  toward  the  staircase.  She  had 
reached  the  middle  of  the  room,  when  a 
rush  of  cold  air  caused  Mathison  to  turn. 
He  saw  Lysgaard,  his  blue  eyes  burning 
with  madness,  his  cheeks  hollow  and  white 
with  fury.  There  followed  two  shots,  but 
Mathison's  was  a  second  too  late.  Berta's 
hands  flew  automatically  to  her  breast; 
wide-eyed  she  stared  at  Lysgaard  for  a 
space,  then  an  expression  of  deep  weariness 
settled  upon  her  face.  She  swayed,  her 
knees  doubled,  and  she  sank  in  a  huddle 
upon  the  rug. 

Lysgaard  leaned  against  the  wall,  grip- 
ping his  bloody  hand. 

"She  had  to  die!  ...  She  betrayed  me!" 
His  voice  was  like  f,hat  of  a  spent  runner. 
"  You!  Sh3  came  to  you!  I  meant  to  kill 
you,  too!  .  .  .  Gott!" 

For  Hilda  was  standing  in  the  doorway 
to  the  music-room,  clutching  the  portieres, 

291 


THE    YELLOW   TYPHOON 

hanging  literally  to  them,  in  fact,  struck  by 
that  hypnosis  with  which  sudden  tragedy 
always  benumbs  us.  She  saw  the  crumpled 
figure  on  the  floor;  her  husband,  tense  of 
body,  his  weapon  ready,  his  face  hard  and 
merciless;  the  blond  man,  sagged  against 
the  wall,  staring  with  pathetic  bewilderment 
not  at  the  woman  he  had  shot,  but  at  her. 
With  a  supreme  effort  Hilda  threw  off  the 
spell,  ran  to  her  sister  and  knelt.  Berta, 
the  little  one  whom  she  had  always  tried 
to  shield,  for  whom  she  had  accepted  many 
a  buffet,  shouldered  the  charge  of  many  a 
misdeed! 

" Berta,  Berta!" 

One  corner  of  Berta's  lips  moved  upward 
— a  touch  of  the  old  irony.  "My  passport 
.  .  .  has  come!  .  .  .  The  mad  fool!  ...  As 
much  as  I  could  love  any  one!  .  .  .  Hilda, 
the  ghost  .  .  .  returns  to  the  .  .  .  tomb!" 
The  beautiful  head  sank  grotesquely  against 
Hilda's  shoulder.  The  Yellow  Typhoon 
had  slipped  down  the  Far  Horizon. 

"Two!"  whispered  Lysgaard,  thickly. 
"Two!  .  .  .  Gott!"  He  staggered  across  the 
room.  "Two! .  .  .  And  she  never  told  me!" 
he  babbled  in  German.  He  dropped  to  his 
knees,  thrusting  Hilda  aside;  put  his  sound 

292 


ILJTilda   was   standing    in   the   doorway,    struck   by 
L  that  hypnosis  with  which  sudden  tragedy  always 
benumbs  us. 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

arm  under  the  warm,  limp  body  of  the 
woman  he  had  called  his  own.  "Berta, 
Berta,  little  one,  I  did  not  know!  Ah,  God, 
why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I  thought  you  had 
betrayed  me,  left  me  for  this  Yankee 
swine!  .  .  .  Two!" 

Mathison  sprang  to  Hilda,  raised  her  in 
his  arms,  and  pressed  her  face  against  his 
shoulder.  A  miracle  had  happened.  Berta's 
presence  here  had  saved  Hilda.  That  was 
the  chief  thought  in  Mathison's  mind. 
Closely  he  pressed  the  loved  one  to  him,  so 
that  she  might  not  see  the  second  tragedy, 
should  Lysgaard  turn  upon  him.  But  even 
as  he  made  the  movement  he  saw  a  strange 
action  take  place.  Berta's  body  slid  slowly 
from  Lysgaard's  arm.  The  man's  shoulders 
pinched  themselves  together  convulsively 
and  his  head  went  back  with  a  spasmodic 
jerk.  Then  he  fell  across  Berta's  body. 
Mathison  thought  he  had  fainted,  but  later 
he  learned  that  the  bullet  that  had  shat- 
tered the  hand  had  ricocheted  and  plowed 
completely  through  the  body.  But  for  his 
tremendous  vitality  Lysgaard  would  never 
have  reached  Berta. 

"Mat!  Mat!"  shrieked  Malachi,  across 
the  tragic  silence. 

293 


THE   YELLOW   TYPHOON 

A  month  later — on  a  Friday  afternoon- 
Sam  Rubin  stopped  his  limousine  before 
a  handsome  apartment  building  and  got  out 
briskly.  Under  his  arm  was  a  portfolio. 
He  rushed  toward  the  entrance  and  popped 
into  the  elevator.  As  he  was  a  privileged 
character,  the  maid  Sarah  admitted  him  at 
once  and  indicated  that  her  mistress  was  in 
the  living-room. 

Rubin  stepped  jauntily  along  the  corri- 
dor, but  he  stopped  at  the  door.  By  one 
window  he  saw  the  star's  mother.  She  was 
knitting,  but  her  glance  was  directed  toward 
her  daughter. 

"Sailorman,"  said  Hilda. 

"Sailorman,"  repeated  Malachi,  soberly, 
if  huskily. 

"Husband,  lover!" 

But  Malachi  rocked  belligerently  and  fell 
to  grumbling. 

"I  can't  make  him  say  that,  mother." 

"  He  has  more  serious  things  on  his  mind," 
interrupted  Rubin,  entering. 

Hilda  whirled.  "Sam  Rubin,  what  have 
you  got  under  your  arm?" 

"A  bully  new  play  for  you;  fit  you  like  a 
glove." 

"I'm  so  glad!    Work,  work,  work:  some- 

294 


THE    YELLOW    TYPHOON 

thing  new  and  fresh  that  I  can  throw  my- 
self into!" 

"Well,  I've  got  it  right  here.  What's 
the  news?" 

"He's  with  the  convoy."  Hilda  caught 
her  manager  by  the  sleeve  and  drew  him 
over  to  one  of  the  front  windows.  "The 
star  in  the  window — mine!" 

"You're  the  finest  woman  in  all  this 
world!"  said  Rubin,  soberly. 

Hilda  put  her  hand  under  the  little  silken 
banner  and  raised  it  to  her  lips. 


THE    END 


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